


The Original Sin

by FeatherBlack (jatty)



Series: Sins [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death, Crowley Whump (Good Omens), Cults, Depressing, Dysfunctional Relationships, Eventual Happy Ending, Everyone Has Issues, Gen, Heavy Angst, I have issues, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Mpreg But Not Really Because Angel/Demon Ambiguity, Nonbinary Beelzebub (Good Omens), Pansexual OC, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Seven Deadly Sins, Seven Heavenly Virtues, Suicidal Ideation, The Ineffable Plan (Good Omens), The Rapture (Christianity), Torture, Traumatic Birth Scene - But Baby and Mom are OK!, Triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-06-22 08:41:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 152,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19663792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jatty/pseuds/FeatherBlack
Summary: After being blessed with a daughter by the Almighty, Crowley and Aziraphale saunter vaguely into the life of parenthood with a not exactly demon, not exactly angel child. As she grows, Crowley is forced to confront the memories he has been attempting to repress and the trauma he has fought so hard to hide. How is he expected to keep her safe when he couldn't even save himself?Meanwhile, Aziraphale is left wondering where this all fits in God's Ineffable Plan--and where in the world does his daughter sneak off to late at night? He's tried asking, but all she does is laugh like her other father and say, "I was born to join in Love--not Hate, Papa."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I really debated posting this story because it's very different from Part One, but I got really excited about the idea when I came up with it and wanted to get it on proverbial paper. 
> 
> Sorry to everyone who wanted a baby/kid fic follow up! There are some kid parts, but most of the later chapters she will be an adult, going about her Sin of Lust business. (This does include her...influence unfortunately extending to her parents who previously have not consummated their marriage, for those who wanted to see that.)
> 
> Let me know what you think! I'm really excited to see how this grows! There's definitely going to be angst and tragedy and comedy and serpent Crowley slithering around.
> 
> Sub Note: Her name is Antigone, pronounced like [AN] + [TIG] + [UH] + [NEE] for all those who were not forced to study Greek Tragedies. I am terrified of a single person thinking it's pronounced Anti-Gone. That would be a terrible name for a baby!

Crowley was sat in the parking lot of a Swedish furniture store, in an SUV that wasn’t his, with too many boxes of furniture and bags supplies, with his head resting on the steering wheel. He could’ve miracled for all of these things with the snap of his fingers back at the shop, but that would’ve required him to stay—and Crowley couldn’t bear to stay. 

One moment, he had been happily tending to (okay, okay, tormenting) his trees and succulents, the next moment someone was pounding at the door of Aziraphale’s shop. His mind had instinctively gone back to the awful night he’d been taken by the angels, and was embarrassed that his first reaction was to turn serpent and hiss. The look Aziraphale had given him… It was humiliating. 

Aziraphale had all too readily signed his name away on the delivery man’s clipboard; all the while, Crowley was eyeing the basket in the man’s hand. He’d seen a basket just like that once before and it had nearly brought about the end of the world. In a way, he guessed it was again—the end of his world as he knew it. The angel seemed so happy and expectant… Crowley knew what was in that basket and still couldn’t refuse when Aziraphale asked him to sign as well. 

If he’d been in human form when that basket was opened, there would have been tears of blood pouring down on that infant like some sort of Satanic baptism. Crowley wasn’t sure if he was happy or sad. Truthfully, all he felt was fear—pure, mortal terror. 

To say he didn’t trust the Almighty was an understatement. That was why he had been so adamant about ignoring the Metatron’s blessing of “be fruitful and multiply.” It was a permission to consummate his relationship with the angel, permission for one of them to take on the role of a female and bear children of their own, and he had rejected it. He couldn’t bring himself to let that happen—to let himself become some part of the Almighty’s next great plan. After all, even with the permission of the Lord, it would still be Original Sin. 

So he’d played dumb, played coy, played every angle he could to keep Aziraphale from asking it of him—and it still hadn’t worked. Now there was a baby in the bookshop, an angel happily weeping over it, and a demon left out in the rain too afraid to drive home. 

A baby was something so far out of his control, so far outside of his realm of understanding, and he had no way to escape except to run—and he couldn’t run away forever either. Aziraphale deserved better than that… The baby—oh, for someone’s sake, he hadn’t stayed to stop Aziraphale from picking some tacky, Biblical name for the baby—deserved better than that.

Crowley knew this, but he couldn’t get himself to turn on the car.

He was so frightened that his hands were shaking, his scales were showing, and his forked tongue kept flicking out to taste the citrus air freshener. 

What if the baby was mortal? What if she was a human? What an awful, cruel trick it would be to bless the union of two immortals with a baby they would watch grow, thrive, and die in a handful of years. They would never age, and yet their daughter would grow old and pass without their ability to save her. 

Aziraphale would be beside himself if he—

No. Crowley couldn’t let himself think of it. He already had tears of blood running down his cheeks. 

What if this baby was part of some Heaven vs. Hell war—just as Adam had been? Crowley didn’t think he could step aside and let the baby he’d been charged with be used in some grand scheme. If that were the case, Crowley decided, he would grab the baby, grab the angel, and drag them both to Alpha Centauri. 

With that as his thrown together exit strategy, Crowley wiped his face on his palms and put the SUV into gear. He started to drive back to the shop, his tension rising more and more the closer he got. He was afraid, now, that Aziraphale would be angry at him for leaving and had to prepare himself to face the wrath of the angel. What was he going to say? “Sorry, I panicked”? “Well, Angel, she can’t just sleep on the couch, now can she?” 

Yes! Yes, that was it. He found himself practicing the line over and over while he drove, mastering the tone—sounding as matter-of-fact as he possibly could. It didn’t matter that blood was running down his cheeks from behind his glasses again. 

He arrived at the bookshop in the stole SUV, snapped his fingers and dumped all the boxes and bags inside, somewhere upstairs, and then stood outside the door of the shop like a fool. He was afraid to go in. 

In his mind, he kept screaming at himself to just open the door and saunter in, but he was frozen in place.

What if he went in and Aziraphale told him to get out? Where would he even go?

Alpha Centauri, he decided.

That was going to be his solution for everything.

( ) ( ) ( )

Aziraphale had been a little upset when Crowley had left the bookshop in a hurry mere moments after their baby had arrived. They didn’t even get to discuss names or hopes or parenting styles before the demon had run to get “baby stuff.”

He could appreciate that the situation was stressful, and could understand that Crowley had never adapted well to sudden changes. Crowley just needed some time to think things over, he told himself (and the baby!) as he paced around his shop waiting for the demon to come home. He showed his little girl all of her Papa’s books and all of her Dada’s plants, miracled her a bottle and little cloth nappies, and sang a song or two as best he could. The whole time, she cooed at him and squirmed around in his arms. She really was a very good, very quiet baby, Aziraphale had been thinking when a loud slam and clatter came from upstairs.

He expected his baby to cry, but she merely gurgled awkwardly and turned her eyes toward the plant beside her as if it had made the sound. 

“I bet that’s your Dada,” Aziraphale said, tapping his baby on the nose. She smiled at him and gurgled again, setting the angel’s heart alight with pure love. “Dada went shopping for you. He’s getting you all kinds of things.”

That was when Aziraphale realized that Crowley had done the shopping… That Crowley, the demon who favored black and red and harsh lines and angles, had gone alone to pick out the furniture for their daughter’s nursery. He was suddenly imagining a crib made of bones and a rocking chair shaped like Roman chariot. He really hoped that wasn’t the case, but if it was he would try to be supportive. She was Crowley’s daughter too. 

“Where is that demon?” Aziraphale muttered to himself when Crowley did not appear after the noises upstairs. 

Thinking he might’ve miracled himself into the bedroom or the spare room, Aziraphale walked upstairs, nuzzling his baby as he went. He found the endless pile of boxes and bags left in the hallway, but no Crowley in sight—not even coiled up as a serpent. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale called softly, looking around in case he had gone snake and crawled away somewhere. Discouraged when he didn’t find him, Aziraphale went back downstairs and was about to sit down at his desk to think—his heart becoming unfavorably heavy—when he sensed Crowley’s presence.

He was nearby...so where the _Hell_ was he?

The baby in his arms, possibly sensing his tension, began to fuss and cry in his arms. Aziraphale tried to soothe her, holding her to his chest and patting her back gently while searching high and low for his demon. He _had_ to have gone serpent, the emotional fool.

It was an act of desperation that Aziraphale even found him at all. He had checked his kitchen, opening every cupboard and even the stove—then decided to open every door he passed as he moved through his shop. Finally, he opened his front door to find Crowley standing on the sidewalk in the dark, blood smeared all over his face from crying. He looked so small and lost standing there that Aziraphale felt his anger draining away. The baby was still fussing, and perhaps it was his imagination, but it seemed she was getting quieter too. 

“What are you doing out here?” Aziraphale asked, continuing to bounce and pat the baby.

Crowley kept working his jaw as if he were trying to say something, then the corners of his mouth tugged downward in an awful frown and he pushed past Aziraphale into the shop.

“I have a crib to build!” He spat. It would’ve sounded angry if it weren’t for the sob which cracked his voice. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale closed the door hastily and tried to follow Crowley up the stairs. “What’s the matter?”

“Leave me! I have work to do. I won’t get anything done with you hovering over my shoulder.” 

“Dada is just upset,” Aziraphale whispered to the baby, turning and descending the few steps he had taken. 

“I’m putting your books in the bedroom, Angel!” Why did he make that sound like a threat? “She needs her own room!”

“That’s fine, my dear!” Aziraphale called up the steps. “Please do be careful! My office up there has my rarest—”

“I know what it has! Why do you think I don’t pay any attention!?”

Aziraphale wanted to go up there and force the demon to look him in the eyes as he worked through whatever emotion he was trying to suppress. 

Several hours of banging and hissing and shouts from upstairs and Aziraphale could take no more. The baby was still wide awake and gurgling, her nappy still clean even though she’d gone through two bottles. (Definitely an etheral creature, Aziraphale decided.) It was time to confront Crowley, force him to take a break from whatever he was doing in the spare room.

With the baby in tow, Aziraphale marched up the steps like a soldier going to war. He checked the bedroom first, finding his rare novels and most of his things from his spare room laid out carefully on their bed. He showed some of the books to his infant who stared at him the whole time he spoke, then took a deep breath before going up to the closed door of the spare room and pushing it open.

He found Crowley sitting in the nearly completed nursery, his hands covering his face and his glasses thrown aside. The furniture all around him matched the aesthetic of the bookshop—all natural woods and neutral colors—with a few hints of chrome and metal thrown in. It was truly beautiful, but hard to appreciate with Crowley sobbing on the floor in front of him. 

Aziraphale had been anticipating an argument, expected to find Crowley hissing threats at the bassinet. He wasn’t prepared for Crowley to be unabashedly crying on the new carpet. 

“My dear?” Aziraphale asked, getting no reply even as he slowly lowered himself to the floor to sit beside the demon. “Is everything alright?” 

“I didn’t get clothes,” Crowley said—as if he’d been rehearsing it. 

“It doesn’t matter. You could get some in snap! Isn’t that right?” Aziraphale asked, trying to laugh in hopes it would cheer the demon up. It might’ve if he’d actually been crying over clothes. “Crowley, what’s this about? Our baby...she won’t change things between us if that’s why you’re so upset.”

“She’s going to die! God gives; God takes away! It’s not a blessing—it’s punishment!”

“How could you say such a thing?” Aziraphale asked, holding the baby a little closer as if Crowley had threatened her.

“That’s what God does! Tests and tortures and—”

“And _forgives,_ Crowley. And _loves._ Please, don’t sound so—”

“I can’t do this, Angel. I-I… I can’t.”

“Do what, my dear?”

“Raise a child to watch it get old and _die!_ Or—Or take her to a mountain top and slaughter her! Or have her _crucified!_ I can’t! I didn’t want this...” 

“I-I highly doubt, Crowley, that the Lord is going to have her crucified or give you Abraham’s test. And she won’t grow old… She’s like us. She’s just like us, my love, so please don’t be upset. She doesn’t seem to grow tired at all. Hasn’t even closed her eyes once, in fact! What human newborn doesn’t need sleep?” Aziraphale kept talking and Crowley slowly calmed enough to listen. He kept expecting Crowley to turn serpent, but he never did, and after an hour or so he was able to push the baby into Crowley’s trembling arms for the first time. “See there? She’s looking right at you.”

“Oh, Satan,” Crowley cursed, shifting the baby to hold her with one arm so he could wipe at the blood on his face. “Why are you letting her see me like this? A mess—an absolute mess.”

Aziraphale miracled the blood away and put a hand on Crowley’s shoulder to comfort him. 

“Stop fretting so much. Just take it in. Look at her. Isn’t she beautiful?”

“Well, at least her eyes aren’t yellow.”

“Must be an angel then, like her Papa,” Aziraphale said with a proud smile. 

“Papa, huh? And I’m Dear Old Mum?”

“You’re Dada. Dada and Papa,” Aziraphale said, smiling at the demon who looked less than pleased with the arrangement. “You were too busy buying furniture to consult.”

“Did you pick a name for her?” Crowley asked, running his finger down the baby’s cheek. He was smiling, the faintest curl at the corner of his lips, as he regarded her. She was smiling at him, then determined to grab and squeeze his finger.

“I wasn’t going to decide on that without you. I was thinking something...classic.”

“You’re not naming her Mary.”

“Heavens no! Not… Not that classic. I just don’t think I could bring myself to name her something ‘hip.’”

“If she’s immortal...she needs an immortal name. I don’t think anything modern would do for her.”

“How about something from literature? I do so love my books, you know.”

“Not calling her Agnes. Give it up right now.”

“I never said Agnes!” Aziraphale said indignantly. “Maybe… Maybe Juliet! Or...Or Ophelia?”

“Does it have to be Shakespeare?” Crowley asked, his lips curling downward.

“No… I guess not. Hm...” 

They sat in silence a while, both staring the baby and taking turns holding her tiny hands and caressing her pudgy cheeks. 

“What about Antigone?”

“Antigone? Like Sophocles’ tragedy? I thought you preferred the comedies,” Aziraphale said, frowning. The name did have a ring to it that he enjoyed—it was unique and classic—but left him uneasy.

“I do, but Lysistrata is a little too raunchy,” Crowley said, noticing that the baby’s eyes lit up at the title of the Grecian sex-strike play. That didn’t seem like a very good sign at all.

“Antigone dies though...”

“Everyone dies eventually. At least she died on her own terms.”

“Well if she’d waited—”

“The same could be said for Juliet. At least Antigone stood up for what she believed was right. She didn’t bend to anyone’s whims but her own and died with dignity. She was strong… Willful.”

“When you put it that way...I guess it does sound nice. Antigone...” Aziraphale tried out the name, looking at the little baby whose blue eyes were fixed on Crowley’s chin. “We can call her Annie for short!”

“Yeah… We could do that,” Crowley said. “Better than calling her ‘Gonnie.’”

“Oh, I do like that, though,” Aziraphale said, smiling a bit. “Gonnie—it’s like Connie, but with a...a ‘G.’” His enthusiasm was met with a disappointed look from Crowley who did not share his good humor. “Annie is perfect though.”

“You’re sure she’s like us?” Crowley asked, cradling their baby a little closer to his chest.

“She’s taken two bottles and hasn’t needed a new nappy. Hasn’t cried… Hasn’t slept. I would say she must be.”

“Do you think she’ll have wings?”

“We shall have to wait and find out, I’m afraid.”

“It’s the only way to know if she’s angel or demon...”

“She can’t be _born_ a demon. One must… One must fall. You remember what the Metatron said to us, don’t you? Before she arrived?”

“Buy fruit trees by the multiples?” Crowley offered.

“No!” Aziraphale said quiet firmly. “The Metatron said our love was pure and untainted. Unsullied. Antigone is a baby born without sin. She can’t possibly be a demon.”

“So which of us is the Virgin Mary?” Crowley asked, causing Aziraphale to choke.

“Well, certainly not you!”

“Why not me? I’m not the one pining for Oscar Wilde and Shakespeare and half a dozen other well-known shaggers.”

“I would never!”

“Neither would I! Humans are repulsive. I’ve no interest in them… It’s hurtful you’d even think that of me.”

“Hurtful? You’re a demon! Your whole existence is to tempt people!”

“I leave the temptation for sex up to the succubi.”

“This conversation isn’t appropriate for the baby!” 

“She can’t understand me,” Crowley said with a shrug, smiling down at his daughter.

Aziraphale looked around the room, smiling at the shelves and crib and changing table they weren’t going to need. For now, he thought, his life felt perfect.

( ) ( ) ( )

Antigone was five before she even started to look two. And ten before she looked five. For the customers of Aziraphale’s store who were accustomed to seeing the little red-headed, blue-eyed girl, her aging was bizarre and there were whispers of her growth being stunted. For two immortals who had already lived six-thousand years, nothing seemed amiss. What was a decade of early childhood, really, when they didn’t have to worry about nappies or accidents or switching over to Big Girl pants? By the time angel and demon were bored with one age, she seemed to develop into the next one all with perfect timing. 

Her first steps had been taken at four-years-old, a year or so after her first word (which had been “angel” for those keeping note [Aziraphale. Aziraphale was keeping note.]). Her favorite toy was a doll house she filled with plastic animals instead of people. She had a large collection of plastic and rubber snakes as well, always shouting “Da-da, Da-da” when she played with them. Crowley was forever known as Da-dah (an adorable little pause between each syllable) and Aziraphale was Puh-Pah. 

They had formed quite the happy little family, Crowley thought to himself as time had passed. Annie wanted for nothing yet never demanded too much. She had her odd tantrums here and there (and a very memorable meltdown at the zoo when cruel, mean, _terrible_ Papa would not allow her to bring home a Penguin), but otherwise had a very cheery disposition. She was very much like her Papa—no doubt an angel through and through.

And she loved food. From the time she was eighteen—approximating here, perhaps twelve or so in people years—it was medium-rare steak for her and lemon tarts all the way! This, of course, meant a new version of “oh, my dear, you must definitely taste this! It’s decadent!” called: “Dada, try it! Try it! It’s really _very_ good!” And who was he to say no? So whatever bite she wanted to offer, he asked her to cut in half and tasted it—earning him a dirty look from his angel who he had seldom shared a fork with.

What could he say, really? He was a snake. He preferred his snacks to have a pulse—not that he was about to tell Aziraphale that. Could you just imagine the look on his face if he found out?

Little Annie… Light of Crowley’s life. Apple of her angelic father’s eye. She was raised on Aziraphale’s books and retellings of history, Crowley’s lessons on business and science. Sometimes they let her go to the park to play with other children, but the friendships were destined to fail. She grew too slowly—staying young while the others matured and grew bored of her childish games. Crowley knew it saddened her and did his best to fill her loneliness with adventures (which Aziraphale thought were walks around the park as opposed to explorations in the last acres of rain forest and rock climbing in American mountains) while Aziraphale showered her in trinkets and food.

There were no further deliveries, no messages from the Metatron, no visits from angels or demons seeking revenge. It was a quiet couple of decades, everyone growing old around them while they raised their progeny in a state of blissful disconnect. 

Things for Antigone were kept as peaceful and harmonious as possible—for who didn’t wish to shelter their child from the evil of the world? Who didn’t want their daughter to believe that the worst things that could ever happen would be being denied a penguin or being told two lemon tarts was more than enough for one day?

Crowley would’ve given all of the world to keep her life so simple, and became ashamed when he was the reason that innocence was swept away. 

He and Aziraphale had gone to bed together after making sure Antigone was content to stay in her room and play with her toys—not go down into the shop to read or make trouble with the plants. Earlier in the day, Crowley had surprised Aziraphale with a pastry from a new shop in Spain, disappearing for over an hour without a word just to get it, and Aziraphale said he would return the favor by helping preen Crowley’s wings later in the night. The exchanging of sweets and grooming of feathers was their form of intimacy. It was the gift they gave each other since the physical lusts, such as humans possessed, did not command them. Nothing pleasured Aziraphale more than dessert, and nothing made Crowley swoon so much as careful fingers combing through his wings. 

So they had laid together in the bed, in the dark, preening one another until Crowley had fallen asleep. He’d wanted to sleep. It felt like the perfect end to the day and there was no place he liked to be more than folded against his angel, warm and safe. 

He’d gone to sleep feeling loved and at home. 

He’d fallen asleep to Aziraphale’s hands on his wings.

That was his mistake.

When he opened his eyes, he was in a room made of white walls and white floors. Gabriel was there, smirking at him with a pellegrina in his hands. Crowley tried to turn and run, but there was Michael, a thermos full of holy water in her hands. Uriel was brandishing the same sword that had once been used to dock his serpent’s tail. 

Trapped. He was trapped. 

He felt the blows of whips falling on him. He felt the burning fire that was the pellegrina around his shoulders. 

“What use does a demon have for wings, anyway?” Gabriel asked. 

“Please—Please, don’t do this!” Crowley called out, feeling hands on both his wings. “I’m begging you—I’m begging. Please, don’t!”

They laughed in his face and started yanking. He felt his feathers snapping, felt his bones crack, felt the unbearable ripping as his wings were ripped of his back. 

He screamed, he screamed so loud—screamed for Aziraphale, for God, for anyone who might listen. 

Then, as the pain grew hotter and consumed all of him, he closed his eyes and found himself face-to-face with Aziraphale. Aziraphale was grabbing his arms and for a horrible moment Crowley believed he meant to tear them off as well. 

He was screaming even then, trying to claw himself free without hurting his angel—not sure why Aziraphale had turned on him, not sure what he could’ve done to upset him. He wanted to ask, to plead for forgiveness, but the terror had taken over him. All he could say was, “You can’t! You can’t!” In hopes that the angel wouldn’t rip off his hands. 

“Crowley! Crowley, please! Annie will hear you—hush. Hush! It’s alright. Shh, shhhh. It’s okay. It’s a bad dream. It was a bad dream, my love.” One of the hands left his arm and began stroking his hair. Crowley, not trusting it, swatted the hand away and tried backing away. He smacked his head into something sharp, startling him more than it hurt him, and lost his ability to scream. “You—You cut your head. Stop—Stop! Crowley...” 

Aziraphale had let go of him completely, allowing Crowley to press himself up against the headboard of their bed.

Their bed…

Slowly, his senses began trickling back into him. 

He was at home. He was in bed. Gabriel and the other angels had fallen. They were gone. That white room was gone. The sword, gone. The whips, gone. He was safe at home and in bed and—

And there was Annie, standing in the doorway with tears of blood running down her cheeks. It was the first time she had ever actually cried—not just screwed up her face and made the motions and the sounds to get an extra sweet or animal toy. She cried tears of blood, tears which stung like acid, and it was his fault. 

“Annie,” he choked out, not sure what he could say to make it better.

“Annie is fine,” Aziraphale said, his voice calming and gentle as he put a hand on Crowley’s shoulder. He didn’t realize she was watching them. “Was that your dream? Did someone hurt her in your dream?”

“Annie,” Crowley repeated, watching his daughter watch him in tears. 

“Annie is fine, my darling… It’s alright. Everything is okay. You’re safe. Why don’t you lay down. Do you want some tea?” Aziraphale was trying so hard to comfort him, and Crowley couldn’t find the words to tell him it wasn’t a _demon_ he should worry about. He should worry about his daughter—his daughter in the doorway crying blood like her worthless, serpent father. Why was that the trait she inherited? 

“P-Papa?” Antigone choked out. Her quiet, timid voice sounded like a gunshot in the room and Aziraphale quickly turned around. He started to tell her go back to go back to her room, but the sight of blood pouring from her eyes sent him reeling. 

“Oh—Oh, my darling! My darling, it’s alright! Everything’s alright,” he said, stumbling out of the bed and falling before her. He took her by her shoulders and gently caressed them while Crowley could only curl in on himself against the headboard—his wings still unfurled and sticking straight up toward the ceiling. 

He was afraid to move them. He was such a simple fool, afraid that a nightmare had broken his wings and too terrified to test them and put them away. 

“What happened to Dada?” Annie asked.

“He had a bad dream, that’s all. Oh, Annie… Don’t cry. Dada is okay. He’s alright.” Aziraphale looked over his shoulder and Crowley felt stricken beneath his gaze. 

There was Aziraphale, calmly keeping everything together while Crowley couldn’t even move. He was still shivering, still crying, and Aziraphale was trying to get him show their daughter he was alright.

“My eyes hurt,” Annie whimpered, rubbing at her cheeks and staring at the blood on her palms. 

Crowley was mortified. His characteristics had tainted her, his perfect little girl. He was the reason she’d cried, cried blood, cried blood which hurt to shed. It was his fault. His fault, his fault, all his fault.

It was his fault.

His fault. All his fault. All—

( ) ( ) ( )

Aziraphale had known it would happen. He’d always known it would happen. Decades may have passed, but Crowley still flinched when someone knocked on the door. Still whimpered some nights when he slept. He still twitched in discomfort if Aziraphale got too close to the base of his wings while preening. 

Truthfully, he’d excepted Crowley to have another collapse many of the times that Annie hugged him. She had a way of squeezing him right where his wings would be if they had been out, and he always saw the way Crowley flinched. He thought the demon might snap at her, startle her, but never did.

Maybe it would’ve been better if he had. Maybe it would’ve been worse… Was there worse than this? 

Aziraphale was trying to comfort his sobbing daughter—his poor daughter who, like her father, cried blood—while his husband fell into a panic attack behind him.

“Dada just had a bad dream. Do you ever have bad dreams?”

Annie gave a timid nod, then peered over Aziraphale’s shoulder at her father. 

“See? Dada had a frightening dream. Big, scary monsters. Wouldn’t you know it, your Dada is scared of monsters too!” Aziraphale said, wiping the blood off Annie’s face only to have more course down. “Please, don’t cry, my love. It’s alright. I’ll take care of Dada, okay? He’ll be all—”

At that moment, Crowley let out one of his demonic screams—a piercing, shrill and inhuman shriek—and Annie yanked away from her Papa and ran back to her room, slamming the door. 

Afraid Crowley had torn off his wing again, Aziraphale whipped around to face the bed. Crowley still had both his wings pointing toward the ceiling, but his skin had scaled over, his teeth morphed into sharp fangs. 

He wanted to scold Crowley for frightening their daughter, but realized quite quickly that the demon was beside himself. He was clawing at his face and yanking at his hair, tearing himself apart.

“My darling? Crowley? It’s alright!” Aziraphale climbed onto the bed beside him, touching his shoulder and soothing away the scales. “It’s alright, my love. No one’s hurting you. I won’t let anyone hurt you. Will you hold my hand? Let me hold your hand, my dear.”

He must’ve spent hours coaxing Crowley out of his demonic form for the sun had started to rise. He had Crowley’s face buried in his chest, staining his white nightshirt with blood, and carded his fingers through the demon’s copper-colored hair. Slowly, very slowly, Crowley began to calm himself down—his cries turning to quiet breaths and then stillness. His wings slowly lowered, gave one halfhearted beat, and were then tucked away. Shortly after, Crowley laid on his back beside Aziraphale on the bed and stared at the ceiling. 

“Are you alright, my dear?” Aziraphale asked. 

“I frightened her…”

“Annie will be fine. You can talk to her when you’re rested and she’ll understand. O-Or I can talk to her. She was just afraid you were hurt.”

“I’m a monster...”

“You are not a monster. I’ve told you before. They’re just panic attacks and humans have them all the time.”

“I’m not a human, I’m a snake! A serpent! A monster cursed to spend eternity crawling on my belly into the kingdom of Hell!”

“Don’t you go getting worked up again,” Aziraphale said, dropping his head onto Crowley’s chest in the vain hope that it might keep the demon grounded. “You’re not a monster, even if you are a snake. I love you just the same, and so does _Annie.”_

“I terrified her. She won’t ever want to look at me again.”

“That isn’t true. Annie loves you. She was worried about you, is all.”

“She cries blood. It hurts so much to cry blood… It’s my fault.” Crowley covered his eyes with his hand, hiding the fresh tears that started to fall. 

“It’s no one’s _fault,_ Crowley. These things...they happen. They happen, sometimes.”

“Oh, people’s daughters cry blood sometimes? And their fathers and monsters covered in scales and have yellow fangs and eyes like a bloody _monster!?”_

“Stop that! I won’t have it anymore!” Aziraphale said, afraid Annie would overhear—positive she had already overheard too much. “You don’t know what she might be able to do. Suppose she might be a serpent? Do you want her hearing you call yourself a monster?”

Crowley gave a pained cry and then rolled onto his side, turning the serpent before he could finish rolling onto his stomach. 

“There now… Calm yourself down,” Aziraphale said, sliding his hand down Crowley’s soft scales. “You’re a beautiful snake. And you’re a great father to our beautiful daughter. Please don’t be so hard on yourself… It breaks my heart.”

Crowley had slowly begun curling in on himself and once he made a spool of himself, he stretched out his head to rest in Aziraphale’s palm silently. 

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” Aziraphale told him. “We need to be open with her about this… I’ll tell her, if you want me to. I won’t go into detail, but—”

“Don’t tell her,” Crowley said, nosing Aziraphale’s palm. “I don’t want her to know.”

“Darling, she needs to understand. She’s going to be with us for all eternity.”

“She’sss a baby. Don’t tell her.”

“Crowley, love… This is part of who you are.”

“She can’t trusssst me to protect her if I can’t protect myssself.”

“Annie would never see it that way. She knows you’ll keep her safe. You always have! You’ve always kept me safe. Please, please don’t tear yourself down.”

“Worthlessss sssnake,” he said, all the while crawling under Aziraphale’s pillow. 

“Crowley, stop… Please. You’re breaking my heart.” Aziraphale tried pulling Crowley’s head out from under the pillow, but his serpent form was so much stronger than him and resisted with all its strength. “It’s my fault. I should know not to touch your wings when you sleep.”

“I didn’t want her to ssssee me thissss way,” Crowley said, slithering out the other side of the pillow and curling his head to rest on Aziraphale’s chest. “I don’t want to tell her about the Fall. I don’t want her to know.”

“I’ll talk to her about it, Crowley. It’s going to be alright.”

“Tonight?” Crowley asked, his forked tongue tasting the air. 

“I believe that’s the best course of action. We can’t just leave her to herself all...well, morning.”

“Morning,” Crowley echoed. “I’ll go… I’ll go with you to talk to her.”

“I think that would be helpful...” Aziraphale knew well enough not to ask if he was going to join as a serpent or a man. He was most likely going to be a serpent for the next month.


	2. Chapter 2

Antigone was making a halfhearted attempt to play with her dollhouse and toys when Aziraphale entered her bedroom. He had a tea tray in one hand and Crowley’s serpent body wrapped around his shoulders and torso several times like a mountain climber’s rope. Annie hadn’t answered when her Papa had knocked, and pretended now that she hadn’t heard him come in.

“Annie… We need to talk about what happened. Can you come sit down with us? I made us all some tea.”

“I’m not thirsty,” Annie said, her little voice so frail and sad it shattered Aziraphale’s heart. It must’ve had a similar impact on Crowley, for all at once his body dropped off of Aziraphale and onto the floor.

“N-Now, now! Crowley—you’re not a fainting snake. Stop that,” Aziraphale said, half whispered with exasperation and fear as Crowley just laid there. After a moment, Crowley started crawling forward, going over to Annie and placing his head on her shoulder the way he would do to Aziraphale sometimes when trying to read over his shoulder.

Aziraphale’s heart would’ve seized in his chest if it could. He was so afraid Annie would stiffen, show signs of fear or simply scream at her Dada to go away. Instead, their daughter turned to look at him—albeit a bit startled—and then lifted her hand to pet his large, scaly head.

“Do your eyesss ssstill hurt?” Crowley asked her, his tongue poking out and very nearly touching the tip of her chin. 

Annie shook her head and no and Aziraphale felt his shoulders relax just a little. That was good news at least. Her cheeks were still bloody, but she wasn’t crying anymore now. He was happy, too, to see Crowley take a little initiative. He hadn’t expected it.

“Are you sssure you don’t want tea?” 

Annie looked as if she were about to shake her head no again.

“I put exxxtra ssugar in your cup. It’sss the blue one.”

Annie turned back to her dollhouse and fidgeted with the plastic lion in her hand a moment. Crowley’s tongue kept flitting out, possibly tickling her chin intentionally. 

“Okay,” Annie finally said, patting her father on the head one last time before standing up and going over to her bed where Aziraphale had sat down with the tea. Crowley followed after her slowly, leaving most of his body on the floor. He wrapped around Aziraphale’s arm once, then extended his head toward his own cup...which was a mug intended for soup because a bowl of tea was ‘too demeaning’ despite how large his serpent’s head was.

“Annie, we wanted to talk about what happened,” Aziraphale said after Antigone had taken a sip from her cup and, finding it delightfully sweeter than normal, smiled at her Dada.

Crowley was still trying to find a way to fit his nose into the mug, his tongue flicking out in a nearly aggressive gesture.

“Why?” Annie said, her smile fading away. Aziraphale didn’t notice this, however, as both he and his daughter were watching Crowley attempted to fit his nose inside the mouth of his mug. He kept nudging the cup further and further across the tray.

“Because you may have seen some things without...without proper understanding. Your Dada—” As soon as he mentioned Crowley, the serpent lifted his head from the cup and glanced first at Aziraphale, and then to Annie. “—is worried you might be upset or...or possibly afraid of him after what you saw.” The implication that Crowley could have feelings of concern seemed to be too much for the serpent to bear, for he went back to angling his head in odd directions to fit it in the mug. “Crowley, you’re just going to spill it! Let me get you a bowl!”

“Not a dog. I’m a ssssnake.”

Annie laughed at him, a small laugh that was so far from her usual one, then set her own blue cup aside on her nightstand.

“Dada, he’s right,” she said, grabbing the mug and pulling it back from Crowley’s head. “Let me help.” She tilted to mug just enough that Crowley could put his mouth into the very brim of the tea and finally get a drink. A fair bit spilled out down his long face and dripped onto the tea tray, but Aziraphale wasn’t about to mention it.

Crowley had been so worried she would loathe him, fear him, and yet here she was tipping his cup so he could drink when he was too afraid to face her in another form more suited for tea.

“Annie, do you...have anything you want to ask about what happened?” Aziraphale offered after Crowley had finished his sip and Antigone had returned to her cup of tea.

“No...” 

“None at all?” Crowley asked, slithering up further onto the bed in order to wrap around Aziraphale’s shoulders. 

“No.” She was looking down at the tea tray and absently wiping at the tear stains where the blood had been. (Aziraphale had quietly miracled it away while Crowley was busy drinking tea.)

“It’s just...you seemed very upset, Annie. We don’t want you to be sad or afraid...”

“Dada had a nightmare… He looked scary to make the monsters leave him alone.”

“Dada is a sssnake,” Crowley said, sounding so horribly sad to Aziraphale’s trained ear. “Ssssometimess if he doesssn’t pay attention, he ssstarts to turn back part of the way. I wasssn’t paying attention. I won’t… I won’t let myssself frighten you again, Antigone. I’m ssssorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault… You said you had a nightmare. I get them too. I dream about the scary people in the forest. Remember them?” 

Crowley’s head shot back a few inches and Aziraphale couldn’t help the disappointed look he passed down at his serpent.

“Tell me...she doesn’t mean the _uncontacted_ tribe in the rain forest.”

“Nooo, no. Jussst sssome men in the park. Ssscary guys. Big biker guysss. Fully clothed.” Crowley quite wisely unwound himself from Aziraphale and made to get another sip of tea. Annie was quick to hold the cup at an angle for him to do so.

“I didn’t know you had wings, Dada,” Annie said while Crowley drank. “Snakes don’t have wings.”

“Dada has wings because he was angel, like me,” Aziraphale said, trying to smile for her though it was hard to miss the shiver that wracked Crowley long body. 

“Was?”

“Yes… A very, very long time ago.” Aziraphale explained it to her, trying to be descriptive but also extremely vague to avoid upsetting Crowley any more than he had to. He tried to focus more on the forgiveness the Lord had shown them, how Annie came to be with them—an angel and a demon who by no power of their own should have been able to conceive—but Crowley had still spooled in on himself and hid his face underneath his coils. 

“But I don’t understand...why they wanted to hurt Dada,” Annie said, reaching out to pet Crowley’s scales. The serpent absolutely shivered at her touch. 

Perhaps it _was_ better to have him as a serpent, Aziraphale realized. If he were in his human body, he would be inconsolable. 

“They were bad angels… They were jealous, maybe, of what your father and I have. It’s something God does not give to our kind very often or...or maybe at all. It’s a gift—a very, very precious one. Just like you. Our precious, beautiful gift.”

“Am I demon?”

“A demon?—Good Heavens, no!” Aziraphale almost choked on his tea. “Annie, you were born without sin. You’re not a demon. You have to Fall in order to be a demon.” Crowley’s body spasmed at the mention of the word and Aziraphale felt his heart drop. This form gave no indication to the absolute torment Crowley was feeling. 

“Then why do I cry blood, too?”

“Because you’re…you’re half me and half your father. Half ethereal and half occult. And we are so, so sorry that happens to you. Your Dada told me it hurts.”

“Am I going to turn into a snake too?”

“We don’t… We don’t know, but we don’t think so,” Aziraphale said, reaching out to stroke his daughter’s red hair. She looked so much Crowley—all sharp angles and lanky—but it was his own eyes starting back at him and her smile looked just like his own. She truly was the perfect mixture of them both.

They talked a while longer, then Annie tried to get Crowley to finish his tea but he wouldn’t come out of his spiral. In the end, Aziraphale had to explain that to his daughter as well—choosing to go with “your Dada is just tired” instead of “your Dada is ashamed you know about his Fall”—and carry both Crowley and the tea tray out of her room and down to the little sink in the back of his shop.

“Well, that wasn’t so awful.” 

Crowley did not answer. He had his nose buried under Aziraphale’s chin and wouldn’t move it.

“Are you alright, my dear?” 

Still nothing.

“Do you want to sit down here a while and talk about it?” Aziraphale asked. “You’re scaring me. Please just let me know if you’re alright.”

“I feel awful…” Crowley said, the emotion breaking through even in this form. 

“We can talk about it… Or we can talk about you taking our daughter to the rain forest without telling me.”

He really though that would work, but Crowley just remained on his shoulders, silently. 

“If we go lay down, will you talk to me?” After another silence, Aziraphale sighed and carried Crowley with him to his reading chair. He sank down and pulled the serpent’s head away from his neck, staring into the unblinking yellow eyes that looked deceptively calm in this form. “I know you’re crying. I can sense these things, you know.”

“I don’t want her to sssee me that upssset again.”

“She wasn’t hurt after we talked to her. She was just frightened. She thought something hurt you. Annie loves you. You don’t need to hide everything from her.”

“I want to ssleep for a thousssand yearsss.”

“I could leave you to try, but, my darling, I don’t think you’ll make it more than a day or two at this rate. I can lay down with you if you want. Annie knows to stay in her room if I don’t open up shop… Or do you want to be alone?”

“I think I need to be alone a while,” Crowley hissed, his tongue flicking against Aziraphale’s throat. “I wish you could come with me, though.”

“I’ll lay down with you, Crowley. It’s no problem.”

“No, Angel…”

“I don’t see why not. You want me to be with you, but you want to be alone… I could just… Why, I could just hold you! I could hold you for a while until you’re feeling better. We don’t have to talk.”

Crowley’s tongue fluttered against his throat again, taking in the flavor of his skin and his cologne. 

“That soundsss niccceee.”

As it turned out, Crowley's idea of together alone was his serpent form wrapped around Aziraphale's shoulders from dawn until dusk, day in and day out, with his face hidden in the lapel of the angel's jacket. He stayed that way no matter what anyone said, what Aziraphale did, or how much Annie asked if he was alright. Aziraphale assured her that her Dada was just sleeping and that she had nothing to worry about.

Several months into this behavior, Annie ceased asking and Aziraphale grew frustrated. He knew Crowley was still alive as those few times he did need to wrench him off his body, Crowley would curl up into a spiral wherever he'd been sat and wait patiently to be picked up again. Otherwise, he never moved—never even so much as sighed. Aziraphale understood that the demon was stressed, that he was anxious and not coping well with those things which haunted him. But it shouldn’t mean Antigone had to suffer as well. It had become unfair.

So, after four months and nearly a week, Aziraphale pulled Crowley from his shoulders and, having lost his temper a bit, tossed the serpent unceremoniously onto their mattress. 

“Really now! You could at least answer _Annie_ when she speaks to you, if not me! How dare you isolate her like this? She asked me just this morning if you didn’t like her anymore. You were right there, too, and you said nothing! Not a word!”

Crowley began spooling up, hissing softly though Aziraphale could tell it was more out of surprise than anger. He lifted his head a bit and looked Aziraphale in the eye for the first time in months, but said nothing.

“Answer me! Talk to me—talk to _Annie!_ Or… Or get out.” As soon as the words crossed his lips, Aziraphale regretted them. It wasn’t a threat he meant to say, and having Crowley gone was the absolute last thing that he wanted. It tormented him, however, the way Crowley was so apt to keep his silence while Antigone spoke to him—practically pleaded with him to acknowledge her.

Crowley stared at him, tongue tasting the air a few times, then he crawled forward and landed on the floor.

Aziraphale stammered a moment, realizing all too quickly that Crowley was going with the latter part of his statement. 

“Crowley! Where—Where are you going? It’s the middle of the night! Oh, for Heaven’s sake!” Aziraphale followed him into the hallway and tried to grab him to stop him climbing down the stairs. It hardly worked, and the harder he pulled, the harder Crowley tugged against him until the serpent finally let out a strangled hiss that almost sounded like a word a word of pain. Aziraphale let him go and watched mournfully as his tail disappeared into the darkness of the shop below. 

Why did it always have to be like this?

( ) ( ) ( )

Crowley had found a place to hide underneath Aziraphale’s reading chair. The bookshop was dark and horribly cold, but he couldn’t bring himself to change back into his human form. Not at the moment anyway. He was angry and tired and his back hurt from the way Aziraphale had yanked on him. He was ashamed again… Embarrassed that he’d slept so long and sick to the core of his being for how he had inadvertently overlooked his child in her time of need. 

Had she really asked Aziraphale if he didn’t like her anymore? Did she mistake his slumber for avoidance of her directly? 

Perhaps, instead of Aziraphale, he should have clung to her instead. But she was such a small thing, a precious girl… He could no sooner ask her to carry his weight than wrap around her neck and crush her. It wouldn’t be fair to lean on her. 

Aziraphale came down into the shop looking for him and Crowley buried his face in the coils of his body as to keep his eyes from showing in the darkness. 

“I didn’t mean it… Crowley, I’m _sorry,”_ the angel said, his voice breaking. “Where did you go?” He sounded so pained and Crowley watched with one eye as Aziraphale rushed past the chair and opened the door to look outside where his Bentley remained parked. “Crowley?”

He should slither out and talk to him. He should say something…

Perhaps he had been serpent too long for he had no words in his head to speak. He felt Aziraphale collapse into the chair above him and stayed put, silently. He could poke his head out and startle him, wrap around him and squeeze him by way of apology. He could man up and answer for what he’d done…

But Crowley stayed under the chair and basked in the warmth that radiated from above him. 

He didn’t know how to apologize—or what to say he was sorry for. The crimes he had committed were too painful to put into words. 

Aziraphale, I’m sorry I am a terrible father to our child. God should have picked someone better for you. Perhaps what we thought was the greatest gift was just another punishment for us both. 

How it hurt him to see his most precious gem as divine retribution…

Crowley ducked his head back into his coils and made to sleep, listening to the sounds of Aziraphale becoming more and more candid with his sorrow. The last thing he heard as he drifted off was his own name, spoken by his angel, heavy with tears.

Then, the next thing he knew, something hard was being pushed into his nose.

Crowley’s tongue pressed out against it as he shook his head, tasting dirt and straw and powdered sugar. That was Annie. Annie always tasted like sugar and plants. 

With his head unburied, he spied a little cluster of light blue, nearly white eggs. First there were three, then four, then Annie’s little hand pushed a fifth one up against his nose again (as she was not looking where she was putting things). The eggs were still warm and being transferred from the pocket of her dress in a hurried, cautious way. 

“Dada, here,” Annie whispered, setting the last of the eggs on top of the pile and then peering down beneath the chair. Her blue eyes locked on his, looking every bit worried and fearful—as one should be when looking at a giant snake spooled under their good father’s reading chair. “I got them from Mrs. Chen’s ducks this morning. _They’re fertilized,”_ she added in an even softer whisper.

She was correct, too. Crowley could feel the pulse within them—the little lives being offered up to him as a treat. And he was, come to think of it, quite hungry…

“Eat them quickly, or else Papa will see!”

Crowley was about to speak to her, thank her maybe, he wasn’t too sure, but she had gotten up and ran away just seconds before Aziraphale called for her from upstairs. 

“Coming, Papa!”

Crowley watched her scamper away, then pressed his nose down against the eggs. Seven eggs, all with little hearts beating—little duck embryos waiting for the right time to peck their way free of their tiny vessels. 

“Not today,” Crowley hissed happily, thinking of how wicked a demon he was for snuffing out these lives. He unhooked his jaw and ate them whole, feeling an almost unearthly happiness at the sensation of being full of little, beating hearts that winked out one by one. Yes, he was the most vile demon of all…

He stayed put under the chair, happily digesting the little family of ducklings while his angel and his little hatchling ran about the shop. A few customers came in, toiled around for a while, then left with nothing in hand because Aziraphale told them his antique register that had no computer component was “down.” Antigone moved her dollhouse and toys down to the sitting area and played on the rug beside where Crowley lay, slowly straightening out to allow his food to digest.

Aziraphale, it seemed, hadn’t realized Crowley was there. He would sit in his chair from time to time, reading (occasionally aloud to Annie who laughed politely at her father’s attempts to put on voices for the characters), but never paid Crowley any mind or showed he noticed the tail and coils slowly spilling out around the feet. 

A couple days went by with customers coming and going empty handed, Aziraphale reading and (regrettably) doing a few magic tricks to make Annie laugh, and Annie playing with her jungle animals in her dollhouse. The lion, it seemed, was the head of the household, the hippo being his wife. There was a stork or crane of some sort that posed as the child, and a collection of snakes that were sometimes the friends and sometimes the grandchildren. Crowley liked watching her play, seeing the little stories she would come up with. The bird always climbed around on the roof at night, meeting with a plastic tiger even though the birds true “best friend” was a golden wolf that visited sometime shortly after the tiger went home to his flat. 

It was a regular old soap opera, Crowley decided—and would’ve been smiling at the twisted nature of the character’s motivations if he had a mouth to do so. How deviously wicked of his daughter to come up with a love triangle between a bird and a tiger and a jackal. And on the roof of its parents’ house no less! How scandalous. Who, in fact, was the father of all those snakes? 

And why didn’t the lion and hippo notice something out of turn with all these snake babies turning up?

Crowley really had let himself get taken in by the story, watching from under his angel’s arm chair. 

He might’ve stayed there a day or two more if not for Aziraphale’s folly. 

Perhaps four days after Annie had given Crowley the eggs, Aziraphale (still at least pretending he didn’t realize his partner was under the chair) stated he was going out for pastries. He asked Annie if she wanted to come along, but she turned him down. (She couldn’t possibly go. The bird was on the roof again, waiting for the golden wolf to show up. However, she didn’t tell her Papa this.) 

“Well, you behave then. Make sure no one touches anything while I’m out.”

Crowley lifted his head a little at that. Was Aziraphale really going out, really leaving their daughter alone, with the store open? It was a trick, he decided. An attempt by the angel to get him to come out of hiding. It was working too, for Crowley couldn’t help but hiss in annoyance which made Annie jump a little bit. Not his intended target, Crowley was afraid, but Aziraphale hadn’t noticed at all. 

“I will, Papa. Can I make some tea while you’re gone?”

Tell her no, Crowley thought, flicking his tongue out irritably.

“Of course! As much as you like. Just remember to put the cream away and don’t leave the lid off the sugar. We’ll be up to our eyeballs in crawly little ants.”

Crowley hissed again, louder this time, but the angel either didn’t hear or ignored it. A few moments later and he was gone, the tinkling of the bell over the door sounding ominously like Aziraphale had gotten the last laugh.

As soon as he was gone, Annie looked under the chair at her Dada who couldn’t help flicking out his tongue. It was becoming a very hard reflex to resist. 

“I’m going to make tea. Do you want some, Dada?” She reached under the chair to stroke his head and Crowley nosed at her, trying to put as much affection into the gesture as he could. It seemed to work for she giggled and ran off, leaving behind her soap opera in order to make tea. 

She came back some time late with a cup for herself and a soup mug for her father which she held for him joyously while he drank it down. 

“What’sss going to happen with the bird and the tiger?” Crowley asked her, his head resting on her knee while she moved around her toys.

“Oh… I don’t know. She’s just lonely.”

“Lonely? That’sss jusst terrible. What about all her friendsss?”

“They don’t come around as much anymore. So she talks to Tiger and Wolf.”

“But they’re all right there,” Crowley said, gesturing toward the pile of snakes in the dollhouse foyer with his nose.

“Yes… But they’re not _really_ there. They don’t know about Wolf and they tell her Tiger is no good.”

“Why isss he no good?”

“Tiger wants her to run away.”

The thought left Crowley flicking his tail aggressively underneath the chair. 

“Run away? To where?”

“His house. In the park. He’s got a studio.”

Something about that didn’t sit quite right with him and Crowley wrapped himself once around his daughter’s torso, squeezing her gently by way of a hug. 

“What’sss thisss about a ssstudio?”

“He wants her to go there, but she doesn’t really like him much. She would rather stay and play with Wolf. Wolf lets her eat pastries.”

“What do her mother and father think?” Crowley asked, suspicious of that statement as well. He’d been watching her play with these animals for days and had not caught on to any implications that someone might be trying to lure the bird away from her house for good.

“She doesn’t want to tell them.”

“Why?”

“Because then they’d be sad. Sometimes…she thinks about flying away.”

“Where would she go?” Crowley asked, squeezing her tighter.

“Away…” As she said it, she began petting her father’s scales.

“Do you want to go away, Annie?” Crowley asked, not wanting to hear her answer.

Even though she shook her head no, he didn’t believe her.

“I don’t want to leave Papa behind. I don’t think he would do very well on his own,” she said.

“What about me?” Crowley asked, cursing himself immediately after. It wasn’t about _him._ It was supposed to be about _Annie._ What was he thinking?

“I think Dada would be happy by himself…”

“That’sss not true. Dada would be besssside himsself if you went away. You’re hisss everything. I love you…”

“I love you too. But I can tell you’re sad. You don’t like it when I bother you.”

“You’re my daughter! You could never bother me,” Crowley said, feeling his heart ripped more and more with each word. He hadn’t meant to hurt her. Truly, he never meant to cause her pain—just escape it himself. 

“After I saw you have a nightmare, you didn’t want to talk to me anymore…”

“Annie, it’ssss not about you, pleasse!” Crowley wrapped himself around her further, careful not to put too much weight into it and harm her. “I’m sssorry if I made you feel that way. It’sss not you, Antigone. It’sss me. I didn’t want you to sssee me upsset. I didn’t want to make you…feel sssorry for me.”

“You’re my Dada… We’re supposed to feel sorry for each other. That’s what love is.” She turned her head to place a kiss on the part of him draped over her left shoulder. “Papa was right.”

“Right? About what?” Crowley asked, raising his head to place it on top of hers. 

Annie looked as if she might be about to answer him, but then the bell over the door rang and she was oh so gently pushing him away and getting to her feet.

“Papa said I have to watch the shop! Drink your tea, Dada.” Then she was on her feet, leaving Crowley in a half spiral on the floor by her dollhouse, flicking his tongue after her as she disappeared around the corner. 

“Hi, ma’am!” Annie shouted, almost too loud to be a friendly greeting. Her Papa had taught her well. 

“Well! Aren’t you a charming creature! How do you do?”

“I’m well. My Papa is out and I can’t sell _anything_ until he gets home.”

“I see! He left you here to keep shop all by yourself?”

“I’m not by myself. Not actually. My Dada is here. He’s just sleeping.”

“Oh! Goodness. You have a Dada and a Papa?”

“Yes. I have one of each,” Annie said, quite matter-of-factly. She had gotten used to shutting down the humans’ pushy questions. 

“He must work night if he’s sleeping now, eh?” Asked the woman as she moved around the shop. Crowley had started slithering out from under the chair in hopes of getting a peek at her—to make sure she didn’t try to steal anything or make off with his daughter all together.

“I don’t think Dada works at all, really,” Annie said, following two steps behind the woman who perused the shelves. 

“He must do something. Perhaps he helps your Papa with the shop.”

“He waters the plants…or he used to.”

“They are quite lovely. Are they for sale?”

“No. They belong to Dada. Most the trees are over twenty-years-old!”

“That’s really very old for a bonsai!” 

Crowley watched from the doorway, half hoping the woman would see him and scream—run away and leave his daughter alone.

“Yes. Dada takes good care of them…or at least he used to. Papa takes care of them now because Dada is sleeping.”

“He must be very tried,” the woman said, her tone growing heavy all of a sudden. “How old are you, dearie?”

“Twenty-one!” 

The answer made the woman laugh, though Crowley could tell Annie didn’t see what was so funny.

“How long has your Dada been asleep?” The woman asked.

Ah, Crowley thought. How long ago did your father pass, is what the woman was truly asking.

“I don’t know… Off and on for a few months now. He hardly ever gets up for anything. Papa couldn’t get him to eat anything, but I know what he likes. I got him to eat some eggs the other day.”

“Oh… It sounds to me like your Dada must be a little depressed.”

“What’s that?”

“It means he’s feeling very sad. I think you did just the right thing bringing him something to eat if your Papa couldn’t get him to. Your Dada must love you very much.”

“He says so.”

“I think if you just keep visiting him, it’ll cheer him up in no time at all. Maybe you could draw him a picture or bring him some flowers from outside.”

“I brought him tea this morning.”

“What a good daughter you are,” the woman said, stooping down to be at eye-level with Crowley’s little girl. She was smiling at her and had placed her hands on both of Annie’s shoulders. “You just be patient now, dear. He’ll come around. Sometimes adults get sad and they don’t know how to face it. Sometimes they’re angry or hurt or even scared—”

“Dada is scared of the monsters,” Annie said, quite eagerly. 

Probably assuming the monsters in question were bigots who opposed two men raising a child, the woman nodded thoughtfully and cooed.

“I’m sure in no time at all your Dada will be back to normal. You just have to be patient with him. I’m sure your Papa has told you that, though. Hasn’t he?”

“Papa says Dada doesn’t know how to let people love him. ‘Cause he’s a demon and all…”

Crowley felt every part of him go rigid—his eyes would be bulging if they could in his serpent form. Did she really just say that out loud? They would have to talk to her… They would really, really have to talk to her.

Thankfully, the woman just laughed and patted Annie’s shoulders before standing up.

“I think your Papa must be very smart. But you shouldn’t go telling people your Dada is a demon. They might get the wrong idea.”

It was then that she noticed the serpent in the back doorway, beyond the last of the shelves. It’s tall black form and glowing yellow eyes looming ominously in the shadows.

“Good heaves, child. What in the blazes is that?”

Annie turned and looked at her Dada, a big smile crossing her lips.

“That’s my snake. He guards the shop and eats the rats.” At least she knew to lie about that.

The woman screamed and made to grab Antigone, only to find a large serpent centimeters away from her fingertips, hissing at her. She yelled something about irresponsible parents and pulled out a phone she intended to use to call for the police, in fear of the child’s safety. The call, of course, did not go through as she had hoped—and the dispatcher she spoke to while fleeing the serpent was none other than the snake itself.

“Oh, yes, ma’am! That’s terrible, ma’am. We’ll have someone sent over there straight away! You get on home now. We’ll take your number down and call you again later tonight and schedule a time for you to pop in for a statement. Can’t have python’s babysitting, now can we?”

With the woman gone, Crowley slithered once around his daughter’s shoulders and pressed his nose to her cheek in lieu of a kiss. She giggled at him and patted his head, then—much like her other father—asked if it would be too terrible for her to sneak into her Papa’s cocoa and make them both a cup as their tea had gone cold. 

Crowley, a being of nothing but temptation, told her it was perfectly terrible of her to get cocoa and that he would also be just as bad for having some to drink from a fresh soup mug. 

“Why,” asked Crowley after slurping down a few cheek-full’s of cocoa, “did your Papa ssssay I am bad at being loved?”

“He didn’t say you were _bad_ at it. He said you didn’t know how to _let_ people do it. Papa says you don’t know how to be loved. He said, ‘Dada likes to do things on his own and doesn’t want to make others help him.’”

“Well, I guessss that’sss true,” Crowley said, sighing and nudging Antigone’s hand until she tilted the mug so he could drink again.

“It’s okay though. Because I’ll still love you anyway.” 

Crowley nuzzled her hand and then laid his head against her knee while she sipped on her cocoa and went back to playing. The bird was talking to the abundance of snakes, telling them they had to do chores or move out. He was getting caught up in the story again when another customer decided to bother them. 

As soon as the bell above the door chimed, Crowley turned his head back to look and tasted the air—hoping it was Aziraphale. The taste he found instead was grime and gin, and the sting of too much cologne. 

Annie jumped up from her dollhouse and made her way quickly to the front of the store, unaware of the cocoa mustache she was wearing.

“Hi!” The greeting, again, sounded like an attack.

“Hullo, there! Got you runnin’ shop today, eh?” Came the voice of a man. 

Crowley tasted the air again, finding cigarettes and the stink of sweat. He didn’t like this man…

“Oh, yes! Papa’s not here right now, so you can’t buy anything until he gets back.”

_Annie, don’t tell him that,_ Crowley hissed, hoping she’d hear him without him having to speak aloud. 

“Not here, eh? Your mum’s upstairs then?”

“I don’t have a mum. Just Papa an’ Dada.”

“A couple of queers raising a kid then, eh? What’s this world coming to?” The man grumbled, making his way around the shop—touching things.

“What’s that mean?” Annie asked, following behind the man, unaware that her father was trailing along the shelves too.

The man dismissed her, then asked more questions. Like where her other dad was. And why she was alone. And how old she was. What time her fathers were expected to come back…

“Do they leave you alone often then? A little girl all by herself… Could be dangerous.”

“I can take care of myself,” Annie said, finally noticing Crowley as he rested atop the shelf by which the man was standing.

“I don’t think it’s right. No… Not right at all.” 

Crowley could sense the man’s nervousness—could feel him plotting—and poised himself to strike.

“It’s fine. Papa trusts me not to handle any cash while he’s gone. And not to leave the sugar out.”

“I think you should come back to my place. You can wait for your fathers there. I’ll leave them a note. I’ve got plenty of sweets—all the sugar you could want. You could play with my daughter. She’s about your age. We’ve got a dog too. What do you say?”

“She saysss no,” Crowley hissed, dropping all of his weight onto the man’s shoulders and sinking his fangs as hard into the man’s neck as he could. 

Annie screamed and backed away a step or two while the man wrestled with Crowley’s serpent body. There was blood flowing into Crowley’s throat, but he paid it no mind, too intent on crushing at least a few of the man’s ribs before letting him run in terror for the door.

Once he was finished, and the man was both screaming and crying, Crowley let himself drop onto the ground and hiss—fake lunging at the man who ran for his life—until the door swung shut. As soon as it had, Crowley morphed back into his human form, finding his legs a little uneasily, and snapped his fingers—locking the door and flipping the sign in an instant.

Annie was staring it him in shock, her little hands covering her mouth.

“Why did you tell that man you were here alone?”

“Don’t be mad, Dada,” Annie said, her voice shaking and little red tears coming to rim her eyes.

The sight of it crippled him, and Crowley was left stammering for words that got his message across without making her cry. He didn’t want to make her cry again. He couldn’t bring himself to be the reason she suffered through tears of blood twice.

“I-I’m not mad, Annie. I… I’m most definitely not mad. Don’t be afraid. Don’t cry. It’s alright. But please, _please,_ don’t go telling strange men you’re in here alone. He was going to take you. Do you understand?”

“I wouldn’t go with him,” Annie said, still sounding tearful.

“I know, Annie, but he could grab you and just take you! He would _hurt_ you, Annie. That’s what he wanted to do. He wanted to hurt you. That’s why you can’t tell them you’re alone.”

“B-But I didn’t. You were here. I was going to tell him my Dada is home, but then you attacked him. Dada, there’s blood everywhere!”

Crowley absently snapped his fingers, making the blood disappear.

“Annie… You’re everything to your Papa and me. We wouldn’t know what to do with ourselves if something happened to you. I need you to be more careful. Don’t you remember us telling you not to talk to strangers at the park or tell them where you live?”

“But he’s a customer,” Annie whimpered, one tear of blood opening the flood gates. She let out a noise of pain and immediately began pawing at her eyes, sobbing as the acidic tears burned her. 

“I’m not mad at you, darling. Please, don’t cry! Don’t cry—it’s alright.” Not knowing what else to do, he picked her up—even though she was much too large for him to hold—and squeezed her tightly. “It’s okay. I know… I know you didn’t mean to. You just frightened me. I didn’t mean…to upset you. I’m sorry, darling. Don’t cry.” He shushed her and held her, remembering all the years he got to hold her as a baby. Those few, sparse years she spent as infant, safe in his arms where no one would dare touch her.

How many times, while he was sleeping, did Aziraphale leave her alone like this? How many strange men came in and tried to get her to leave? That foolish, naïve angel… He had no idea how twisted and evil the world was, so caught up in his opinion of Heavenly Grace and divine protection. 

“I won’t let anyone hurt you, my darling,” Crowley whispered to her, finally feeling her sobs subside as he coddled her. “Your Dada loves you… You know that, right? You know you mean the world to me.”

“I know,” Annie whimpered, her face buried in the crook of his neck. 

He held her that way for a long time, not even realizing he’d put his wings out to encircle them until the door cracked open and the bell jingled again.

“Can’t you see we’re closed!?” Crowley snapped, holding Antigone a little tighter without looking back at the door. “Get out!”

“Crowley? What in Heaven’s name is going on?” Aziraphale stood in the doorway, his face concerned while his hands nearly crushed the two, white pastry boxes he had held between them.

“You left her here to run your shop and some psycho tried to take her! That’s what’s going on!” Crowley hissed, only realizing too late that it made Annie start crying again.

The look Aziraphale gave him hurt almost as much as his daughter’s tears. He was the reason his daughter was crying and the angel knew it, the angel was silently scolding him for it. 

“She would have been in no danger if her father would trouble himself with parenting her instead of hiding his face from the sun like a coward,” Aziraphale said, strictly in Enochian. It was by far the harshest thing the angel had ever said to him, and if it weren’t for Annie clinging to him—crying renewed—Crowley felt he would’ve turned serpent and slithered away for good. “What did you allow to happen to her?”

“Nothing,” Crowley hissed in the same dead language. “Why did you leave us?”

“I left to get her crepes. It is the day of her birth tomorrow. I can tell you have forgotten as you always do.”

“I never have!” Crowley spat, his mind racing backwards. Okay, okay. Fine. He might’ve missed a few if Aziraphale hadn’t reminded him, but only because he didn’t pay much attention to the human calendar. Why would he when the decades flew past like hours? 

“Lower your voice. You’ve upset her,” Aziraphale said, turning away to re-lock the door and then stepping over to them. “Annie, my little dove,” the angel said to her, placing a hand on one of her shoulders while cradling the pastry boxes with one hand. “I got you a present. I went all the way to Paris for them—just this afternoon.”

Crowley had to push her to get Antigone to let go of him and accept the box from her father. Once she was occupied, Crowley realized he’d put his wings out and quickly retracted them—mortified when he realized how badly they were in need of preening. He didn’t even want to look at them, let alone groom them. All he wanted was to curl up and disappear, but turning serpent now would only make things worse. He had nowhere to hide—nowhere to retreat and lick his wounds. He was left flayed open and at the angel’s mercy.

And Crowley knew far too well how merciless angels tended to be.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forewarning, this chapter is weird. So sorry!

“I got something for you while I was in Paris,” Aziraphale said, hanging up his tie. Crowley was laying behind him on their bed, fully clothed with his sunglasses obscuring his eyes. “I do wish you would talk to me, dear. I’ve had just about enough of the silent treatment.”

“What’s left to say?” Crowley asked. Aziraphale had never heard him so out of sorts and he felt his shoulders droop. Perhaps he’d been too hard on him when he’d gotten home. He’d gotten carried away, and being blamed for Antigone being put in danger while Crowley was home and perfectly capable of watching her hadn’t helped.

“Crowley… I understand that you’re upset. I was hard on you, and I apologized. I told you over dinner I was sorry and you said not to mention it.”

“I’m not going to fight with you in front of Annie. Not in this or any other language. Don’t ask me to.”

“I would hardly call a discussion a fight. She needs to see how adults communicate in order to—”

“Well I don’t communicate, do I? No. I turn serpent because I don’t know how to love. Isn’t that what you told my daughter?”

“I told Annie you don’t know how to let someone else love you! There’s a big difference. I have always tried to support you, and help you, and you’ve always shut me out—every time you need something, you turn serpent and crawl away until you don’t need it anymore. You won’t let me comfort you or talk to you or _rationalize_ with you. And you did the same to Annie.”

“I _told_ Annie why I was upset! I told her why she couldn’t be telling strange men that her parents weren’t home! I attacked that man for her!”

“In front of her!”

“He was going to take her! You stupid, naïve angel! He was going to murder our daughter! He’s lucky he left with his life!”

Aziraphale couldn’t help the look of pain that crossed his face. He couldn’t stand being blamed when he’d known Crowley had been awake and in hiding under his chair for days before he left. He knew Crowley was watching her—knew she would be safe. He’d also known when he left that it would get Crowley to come out. Any customer who saw a girl as presumably young as Annie left to herself was bound to try getting involved. Crowley would be bound to stop them. It had worked, but now the angel was left wondering at what price.

“I hadn’t meant to upset you,” Aziraphale said gently. “I only wanted…for you to come back. I missed you. I knew you would save her if something happened. I knew…someone would try to get involved—try calling the police or report her being neglected. And I knew you’d stop them. It was the only way I could think of to get you to speak to me again. I’m not so very good at this parenting thing… Certainly not single parenting. I can’t do it on my own.”

Crowley sighed and took off his sunglasses, setting them on the mattress beside him in order to rub at his yellow eyes. 

“That man was going to molest our daughter, Aziraphale. And I let him leave with his life...”

“Don’t dwell on it. You’ll drive yourself mad.” Aziraphale finished changing into night clothes, oddly exhausted and wanting to sleep though he doubted Crowley would do the same. “Your wings need tending.”

“Yeah… I suppose.”

“I can… I could, if you wanted… That is—I’d like to. If you wanted to.” Aziraphale found himself turning away, a faint blush on his cheeks. He wasn’t sure why the offer embarrassed him so, but it had. It was as close as they got to intimacy and now that Crowley was finally back in his human form, that closeness was something Aziraphale was desperately hungry for. 

“I don’t know, Angel… It didn’t end so well last time.”

“I suppose not,” Aziraphale said, sighing softly and forcing a gentle smile before he turned to face Crowley. 

“I mean… If you wanted to, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt,” Crowley added, his yellow eyes looking anxious. 

“You don’t have to. I’m… I’m sorry I mentioned it.”

“Well don’t act like that about it,” Crowley whined, sounding a little more like himself as he moved his sit cross-legged on the bed. “I like when you groom them. Feels nice an’ all that…”

“I won’t make you,” Aziraphale said, back pedaling and not really sure why. He was embarrassed and uncomfortable and Crowley’s needy gaze wasn’t helping. He couldn’t tell what the demon wanted. Six millennia together and he still couldn’t figure out what was happening inside Crowley’s head. 

“If you don’t want to, that’s fine,” Crowley said, shifting around awkwardly on the mattress. 

“You didn’t want me to!”

“I didn’t think about it… It’s been a while. I thought about it...” 

Now Crowley was looking at him expectantly and Aziraphale was left sighing and sinking down on the bed. 

“Fine, fine. But don’t fall asleep.”

“Not even the slightest bit tired,” Crowley said, laying down beside him and snapping his fingers—turning off the light and switching his attire into a lone pair of pajama pants. Black silk, the decadent creature. His wings were out, all their crooked, graying, and frazzled glory on display. 

One touch—one stroke through the charcoal black feathers—and Crowley melted against Aziraphale’s chest. 

“There you go, you fussy serpent,” Aziraphale muttered, picking out a cluster of loose feathers and straightening the little ones that were growing in. “I don’t know why you go serpent when all you really want is me to preen for you.”

He really hadn’t expected an answer, and certainly not a serious one, so it surprised him when Crowley squeezed his chest gently and spoke. 

“Because I don’t want you getting all out of sorts because I’m upset. You shouldn’t have to carry my weight.”

“You’ve carried mine plenty of times. We’ve talked about this,” Aziraphale said, keeping his tone as gentle as possible as he continued setting aside a little pile of feathers. 

“I’m so much heavier than you, Angel. That’s why I Fell and you didn’t.”

“You Fell because you’re too curious for your own good. And it suits you. I like you this way.”

Crowley whined and buried his face in Aziraphale’s neck. 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“My Fall?”

“If you wanted to...”

“Fell… Burnt the whole way down. Wings turned black. Eyes burnt out of my head… Fell into a boiling pit of sulfur. Skin burnt off… Crawled out a snake. Everything hurt… Everything’s dark. Everyone’s moaning, in pain. People are screaming… I don’t know why She did this to me. I still loved Her.”

Crowley was holding him tighter and Aziraphale continued preening for him, ignoring the crimson tears sliding down his neck and soaking the pillow behind him. 

“If you could…would you rather be a demon and be with me and Annie, or would you rather have stayed an angel?”

“Annie,” Crowley whispered. “And you. I love you now. I have _you_ now. It’s enough for me.” 

“You know… I was afraid a moment, that day with the Metatron, that God might’ve offered you forgiveness. That the Lord may have reestablished you as one of the angels, maybe even made you an archangel to make up for losing Gabriel and the others. I thought to myself, ah, this is it. There’s no possibility of us ever being together, an angel and a demon, under the eyes of God.”

“And here we are,” whispered Crowley, pressing what might’ve been a kiss to Aziraphale’s throat.

“Here we are…” Aziraphale repeated, smiling as the patch of feathers he was working on started turning glossy. 

( ) ( ) ( )

A couple more years ticked by, for the most part harmoniously, and Crowley only had to turn serpent twice. Once because it was winter and he couldn’t take the cold another second let alone another three months. And once because a “talent agent” had gotten too pushy in his desires to turn Little Annie Girl into a star. Oh, but her red hair! Oh, but her full lips! Oh, this child will be all the rage! You’ll see her face on billboards and in all the papers! 

He didn’t want to take no for an answer until her “stubborn” and “unsupportive” father morphed in an instant into a black and red snake the size of a human and lunged at him.

Annie found the whole situation quite hilarious and had continued eating the tiramisu her Papa had brought her from the bakery across the way. 

It was in Annie’s mid-twenties that things began to go downhill, at least as far as her doting fathers were concerned. You see, the morning after Annie turned twenty-six, their budding young flower—now looking the ripe age of sixteen—crept up to her father’s elaborate throne and tapped him on the arm.

“What’s it now? I’m reading the paper,” Crowley said, his eyes scanning an article about a mysterious bonsai tree that had appeared, growing fully rooted, into the floor of the loo in the Central Criminal Court. The authorities were said to be “mystified.”

“Dada, I need to talk to you,” Annie whispered to him. 

“Go and ask Papa. You know he doesn’t like it when I give you permission for anything.”

“Dada! Please!” Her voice started shaking and Crowley let go of the paper in an instant. He could already sense Aziraphale scolding him for ignoring her to the point she’d become stressed. Well, Crowley thought by was of response, if she’d started by saying it was important he would’ve, of course, stopped reading about his latest and greatest trespass against the humans.

“Alright—Alright, what’s this about?” He asked, lowering his sunglasses to meet her worried gaze.

“You need to come here. I have to show you something.”

“Show me something? Alright,” Crowley said, stiffly getting out of his chair. He must’ve been sitting there a week by how much his legs hurt—but that didn’t seem right. Perhaps he was starting to get old…

The thought almost made him laugh.

He was led upstairs which made his curious because Aziraphale was in their bedroom “cleaning” or whatever. Surely she could’ve just knocked on the door and asked him for whatever she needed. Annie took him into her room which in recent years had turned more to clothing and jewelry and yoga routines than dollhouses and exotic plastic animal toys. Crowley didn’t like coming in her room much, because it looked so much older and it depressed him. She was growing up too fast and he wanted her to go back to being so small he could pick her up again.

“You have to promise not to tell Papa,” she said, closing her door quickly.

“Why? What’s the matter?” Crowley asked, surveying the room for damage. Nothing appeared to be broken—no classic first edition novel laying covered in cocoa this time. 

Annie was wringing her hands nervously and shifting around, her nervous energy making Crowley do the exact same gestures unwittingly. Annie was quite the snake charmer.

“Annie, you’re scaring me. What’s wrong?” He asked.

“I… You just _can’t_ tell Papa.”

“I won’t—I won’t tell that fussy angel anything. Cross my heart. What is it?”

Annie stared at him again, biting her lip before she turned around quickly and stalked over to her bed. 

Crowley was, for whatever irrational reason, afraid there would be a boy in there even though the blankets lay flat. 

“Just don’t freak out, okay, Dada? I don’t know how it happened!”

Crowley was about to ask, quite inanely, what she was talking about again. Then, as she pulled back the blankets he was faced with a small stain of blood on the sheets—and an egg. 

The blood he had grimaced at, understanding and loathing it all at once, but the egg. Now… Now that was just different.

“Oh… Yeah, tch. You know… Eggs and all that. It happens,” Crowley found himself saying, quite dumbly, because he had no idea what he should say.

“Happens!?”

“Yeah… It’s—It’s natural. Very natural. Wha—What was it like?”

“What was it _like!?”_ Annie snapped, looking purely revolted.

“I—I didn’t mean that. I meant, did it hurt! Are you hurt, Annie?” Of course she was hurt, Crowley cursed himself, there was blood from he _didn’t even want to know where_ all over the thing.

“I’m fine now, but it wasn’t exactly enjoyable! Once moment I was asleep and the next I wake up pushing out an egg!”

“I… I could see how that would be… Yeah.” Crowley scratched his head, eyes fixed on the egg.

“It’s not going to hatch, is it!?”

“Nah—No. No, of course not. At least, I hope not. Is there a reason it should hatch?” Crowley asked, his mind suddenly racing to the boy who kept coming in their shop to look at anything but the books. He didn’t think there was a time the lad had gotten to speak to Annie alone, but Crowley was suddenly left remembering the dollhouse and how the child, the stork, stayed on the roof and met with the Tiger and Wolf while her parents were in bed.

“I don’t know! Don’t they just hatch? You sit on it and it hatches and then you’ve got baby chicks running around! I don’t want baby chicks, Dada! I don’t want any baby chicks running around Papa’s shop!”

“Then don’t sit on it!” Crowley exclaimed, feeling pulled nine different directions at once.

At the same inopportune moment, a soft knock came at the door.

“Hello? Everything alright?”

“Everything’s fine, Papa, go away!” Annie shouted, her hands fisted in her long red hair.

“It doesn’t sound fine… Crowley?”

Crowley looked to his daughter who shot him a nasty scowl and shook her head. 

“Dada, don’t,” she whispered harshly.

“Well—he’s your father too,” Crowley whispered helplessly.

“Don’t!” She mouthed.

“But, Annie!”

“Annie?” Aziraphale, knocking again. “What’s the matter in there?”

“Nothing, Papa!” Her frantic tone was a dead giveaway and the angel opened the door to take a cautious peek inside. Finding no one bleeding and no books covered in drinks, he pushed the door open further. 

“What’s the matter? Why’s everyone look so upset?”

“Laid an egg,” Crowley said, shrugging. How else was he supposed to put it?

“You did?” He asked, looking Crowley up and down. “I always thought you preferred being male.”

“Not me! Your daughter,” Crowley said, gesturing to the mattress where Annie had quickly covered the object in question with her blankets again.

“He’s crazy, don’t listen to him.”

“An egg? You two really need to stop trying to pull one over on me. This prank’s not going to work.”

“’S not a prank!” Crowley pleaded, desperate that his husband be made to feel as uncomfortable and awkward as he did. “She laid an egg. Turned twenty-six, laid and egg. Our daughter is a woman now—and I have to go. I have to be somewhere.” Not really sure where he could even make up an excuse to be, Crowley simply tried the age old method of walking out the door—only to be grabbed by the arm and pulled back. 

“Now, hold on! What’s all this nonsense?” When Crowley gave no answer, Aziraphale looked to their daughter. “Annie?”

“Ugh! Fine!” She threw back the blanket, revealing the egg and the small smear of blood. 

“Oh my…my Lord. You… You’re not… You’re not serious?” He looked to Crowley—knowing if it were a prank, only Crowley could’ve come up with it. Crowley shrugged and grimaced.

“Eh—you know. Stranger things have happened? I’m a snake, you’ve got enough wings for three angels. Our daughter lays eggs. A lot better than the curse of Eve if I do say so...”

“Well… I-I had wondered when she might… But—Annie, oh, Heavens, forgive me! Antigone, I’m so sorry. This isn’t helpful. Um… Ah—Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” Annie said, covering her face. 

“Are you certain? No… No cramping or—or cravings or… I could get you chocolate! Yes, chocolate from the patisserie!”

“I don’t want chocolate! I want this egg to go away!”

“Oh, yes… This does pose a problem. Er… Crowley?”

“Don’t you dare look at me,” Crowley hissed. “I’m not touching it. You touch it.”

“Heavens, no one should be _touching_ it! It’s just… I-I wondered, not that I don’t trust you Annie, my dove, but...is it… _You know?”_

Fertilized. 

The same question Crowley wasn’t about to ask directly either.

“How should I know?” Crowley hissed.

“Well… Annie? Er… We wouldn’t be mad. Of course we wouldn’t—not at all. Crowley?”

“Mad? Baby chicks running around the shop. No… No, delightful. Sounds delightful,” Crowley managed, thinking about every young boy and every man who’d walked into their shop the past twenty-six years and how he longed to wring all of their necks.

“What are you talking about?” Annie asked. 

“Boys, dear,” Aziraphale said, smiling in his nervous, pitying way. “Are there any, er, boys that perhaps…visit?”

“A lot of boys visit me! What does that have to do with—with _that!?”_

“Told you to give her the magazine. You said no,” Crowley mumbled, sinking onto the floor and covering his face. “You said that was indecent and would give her ideas. Now look at her. Laying eggs and doesn’t know how it happened.”

“Stop!” Annie shouted, her voice so piercing that the mirror over her dresser cracked. “Dada, you’re a snake—snakes lay eggs! What is happening to me?”

“I-I don’t lay eggs! I don’t think I can—even if I were a female. I...” He looked to Aziraphale for support and found none. “I don’t think demons can—I don’t think we’re fertile. Are you?” He looked at Aziraphale questioningly, wondering if in his six-thousand years he might’ve tried out being female, might’ve tried out a lover or two and seen if he could create life.

It was a stupid idea. Aziraphale looked at him like he had thirty heads. Of course he wouldn’t have tried. He and Crowley hadn’t even tried. 

“Am I snake?” Annie asked, suddenly letting out a terrible sob that got Crowley back onto his feet.

“No—No, I doubt that. No scales, no fangs. You’re just...just a little too much like me. Don’t cry. You know it hurts to cry...”

“I know!” Annie growled, her voice sounding almost feral through her tears.

Crowley really hated this new teenage thing.

“Okay, okay… This—this can all be resolved,” Aziraphale said, quite calmly. “Crowley—you’re a snake.”

“Nooo,” Crowley hissed sarcastically.

“Snakes can tell if eggs have a pulse, right? You can tell if...if there’s a...baby...something in there.”

“I’m not touching it.”

“Crowley, now come on,” Aziraphale said gently, as if coaxing a dog into a pet carrier to go to the vet. “Annie is upset. The sooner we...get past this, the sooner we can all go have tea.”

“I don’t _want_ tea,” Annie sobbed.

“Fine,” Crowley hissed, slowly turning serpent so Aziraphale had time to acknowledge the glare on his face before it scaled over. He slithered over to the bed, tasting the air—tasting blood and powdered sugar and feathers. He got just close enough to the egg to sense its warmth, it’s stillness, then turned back to his human form. “Nope. Nothing. Dead and empty. Now what?”

“Are you certain?” Aziraphale asked, hugging Annie and rubbing her back.

“Positive. Now what? Rubbish bin?”

“Er… I-I don’t… I guess so? Perhaps?”

Crowley rolled his eyes and snapped his fingers, sending the egg anywhere but where it was and leaving the bed clean and made at the same time.

“There now, like it never happened,” Crowley said. “Now, Angel, I think it’s your turn to explain why the egg’s not fertilized and I’m going to have a drink of scotch.”

Before Aziraphale could protest, Crowley saw himself out of the bedroom and shut the door behind him. He turned serpent to get down the stairs, afraid his human legs might spill him, and helped himself to a bottle of wine Aziraphale had picked up for him in Paris quite a while ago. How old had little Annie been then? Twenty-one?

Now she was twenty-six and laying eggs...and smelling of feathers. 

That was what got him the most. 

She wasn’t a serpent. Definitely no hint of scales or musk. Just feathers and sugar. 

He was all the way through the bottle of wine and onto the second one when Aziraphale came down and sat in the chair beside him.

“She’s quite certain now that there was no way for the egg to have been… Well, you get the idea.”

“That’sss lovely,” Crowley said. “Our daughter—she tastes like feathers.”

“What an odd thing to say.”

“Feaaatherss, Angel. Little white fluffy feathers. Lil’ chicken or somethin’ like that,” Crowley slurred, quite drunk. “I think she’sss got secrets from Dear Old Dad.”

“As all teenagers do. Pour me a glass, won’t you?” Aziraphale said, smiling at him in a dainty way that made Crowley want to kiss him. But he didn’t. Just snapped his fingers to summon a chalice and handed it to his angel, full of red wine. “We should...keep a better watch over her.”

“She’ll hate you if you do that. You know that. Hate. Hate Precious Papa. She dinn even want you t’know ‘bout her egg. Likes you more than me.”

“No! No, Heavens no, Crowley. That’s not a preference of parent that’s...shame,” Aziraphale said, his voice lowering with disappointment. “That’s a sign she thinks I would be ashamed of her. Am I the harsh parent?”

“Well, you’re not the fun one,” Crowley said, wiggling back and forth in his seat like a serpent trying to bait a predator to lunge at it so it could strike. He was trying to be playful, so it really struck him like an arrow through the chest when Aziraphale started to cry.

“Well, don’t joke about it!” The angel sobbed, covering his eyes with one hand while holding his chalice to his lips with the other. 

“Don’t cry. I’m just making fun… She loves you. Annie loves you. She only came to me because I’m a snake. She thought I laid eggs or somethin’. I don’t. I haven’t. I would...if you asked me to.”

“What?” Aziraphale asked, him looking at him with shock but still bleary-eyed.

“Said. I wouldn’t even if you asked me to,” Crowley corrected.

“Oh… For a moment,” Aziraphale paused to take a drink of wine, “I thought you said you _would.”_

“No… Nooo. No, no eggs. No eggs for Crawley.”

“Crowley.”

“Craaaawl.”

“You’re really very drunk,” Aziraphale said, chuckling and wiping his face. “Oh dear. I need to be more careful. She could come down at any moment.”

“Nah. She’s up there, meeting boys on the roof. Laying eggs… How often is she gonna go doing that? This egg laying business? Surely not every month?”

“I don’t know, Crowley. She didn’t exactly come with an instruction manual, now did she?”

“If every year is… Wait, no. If every ten years… I… I’m really too drunk for mathematics.”

“Do we need to buy her...protection?”

“I’m not drunk enough for this, Angel. Hang on.” Crowley poured himself a shot glass of scotch which he downed in an instant. “No. We do not need to do that.”

“What do you propose instead? She’s… She’s a growing girl. An… An adult. She’s not like us in that way, I’m afraid.”

“What we’re going to do, Angel, is kill every boy she tries to talk to until she’s three-thousand years old.”

“Three-thousand? Are you serious? We’ll have wiped out half the planet by then! And what with the way the world is changing for the worse… Will there even be men on the planet for her when she’s three-thousand?”

“Two words, Angel,” Crowley hissed. “Alpha Centauri.”

“Oh, not this again… You really are much too drunk. Sober up.”

“No. I had to almost touch our daughter’s egg.”

“It’s just an egg.”

“An egg from her you-know-where! You touch the next one!”

“Crowley, you’re out of line.”

Crowley grumbled at him and drank more wine, thinking about all the young men he would need to send to Hell as soon as possible. 

“I am afraid that...that she might meet someone, Crowley.”

“I’ll get ‘em. I’ll smash ‘em ‘fore she e’en know’ wha’ happen’.”

“Listen to me. Please,” Aziraphale said, his voice so soft that Crowley did force himself to sober up, but just a little. “I’m afraid she’ll meet a...a human. That she’ll love him. And he’ll die. And that her children might...also. I don’t want Annie to suffer.”

“Maybe she’ll meet an angel, Angel,” Crowley said, before ducking his head and repeating “angel, Angel” to himself over and over to remind himself how stupid it sounded. 

“Or a demon, Crowley?”

“Nooo. No, I won’t allow that. I’ll have her Papa douse it in Holy Water. No demon touching my little girl. No. Not on this planet or any other.”

“I’m worried, Crowley. I really am.”

Sighing, Crowley forced himself to sober up the rest of the way and placed his hand on Aziraphale’s thigh. 

“Me too, Angel.”

( ) ( ) ( )

And perhaps they had good reason to worry. 

It wasn’t very long before Crowley began catching his daughter around corners of shelves with boys backed against the books. Aziraphale would see her hanging out her bedroom window whisper-shouting to young men who came by with flowers and jewels and technological devices that would be obsolete in three years. The first few times it happened, she blushed at them in shame and said she couldn’t help herself.

“I’m lonely, Papa...Dada. Please!”

They tried to explain to her that these boys were just trouble—had to explain to her that she was still very young and these boys would grow to be very old before she even reached her prime. She cried then and Crowley had to leave the room.

“I don’t understand… Why would God make me this way? I don’t have any friends, I can’t have a boyfriend—everyone’s just going to die and I’m going to be stuck here!”

Her sorrow hadn’t lasted long and Crowley was convinced it was the demon in her that rescued her. She stopped entertaining the boys that came to her window, stopped pressing the young teenagers back against her father’s bookshelves and tempting them with kisses she wouldn’t give. 

No, Antigone had switched to flirting with delivery drivers and cat calling businessmen that walked down the street. If any came into the shop, which many of them did seeing a fiery redhead like her showing interest, she’d hide upstairs and leave them to deal with her fathers. Less forward men who wandered into the shop, men who quite possibly intended to be customers, would end up turning a corner to find a young woman doing yoga poses that put her serpentine father to shame. She would either ignore these men completely, being too far “in her bliss” to acknowledge them, or she would smile, or wink, or worse—giggle. 

Gone were her girlish dresses and knee-high socks. Gone were her braids and pig tails and little flat slippers. Annie’s style became one of flowing skirts and corset tops—or short skirts and long-sleeved sweaters. A tease of flesh here, and a promise of more hidden just out of reach. She wore her hair down in shimmering curls, wore makeup that made even Aziraphale blush from time to time. Gone were her girlish Mary Janes. Now she wore heels and clinging, tall boots and sandals that showed off her carefully painted toes.

She was growing up… She _had_ grown up. And no amount of scotch or wine or alcohol or pastries was going to undo it—not that Aziraphale and Crowley didn’t try. 

“Do you remember when she threw that tantrum over the penguins?” Aziraphale would ask.

“Remember when she and I tricked that bus driver into taking us all the way to Colne Valley?” Crowley would reply.

“Oh, we stayed by the reservoir all day…that poor driver.”

“Annie was afraid of the frogs.”

“She’s kissing plenty of them now,” Aziraphale would comment, then frown and drink more wine until he was ready to go upstairs. 

On one such night, after a long session of preening each others wings and drinking scotch and wine, Aziraphale and Crowley came out of their bedroom to find Annie’s empty, to find the whole of the shop empty. 

Aziraphale had been beside himself, devastated and convinced that Annie had run away. Crowley, sobering up quickly and paying attention to the empty bedroom, was certain she had not run away, but rather snuck off. 

“Just out exploring. Remember, she’s only half angel. She can’t be good all the time. Maybe she followed my example and planted that under-performing little Aloe Vera in the Queen’s garden or something.” 

Aziraphale sat on the top step and cried as if Annie had been murdered, leaving Crowley feeling very out of sorts. He tried to offer comfort, but nothing he did or said seemed to work. He offered more wine, offered chocolate, offered a cheap bottle of chocolate infused wine… Aziraphale wanted none of it. All Crowley could do was sit beside him and hold him, letting the angel’s tears soak his shoulder. 

“I didn’t even get to say goodbye...”

“She’s coming home, Angel… And we’ll give her a talking to when she does. I promise. She’s just...exploring. It’s my fault. My demonic presence rubbed off on her. I’m sorry, Love.” 

On and on it went, for Annie did not come home before sunrise or by sunset the next night—or the next sunrise…

Aziraphale crawled into bed on the third day and didn’t come out. Leaving Crowley pacing the shop and the streets of London looking for clues, of which he didn’t find a single one, and then at the angel’s bedside. 

“Maybe… Maybe God will give us another,” Crowley offered, only to be met with more tears. He didn’t want another, he wanted Annie to come home. Crowley, though he didn’t admit it, wanted both—another little baby and his Annie, under one roof. “Maybe she laid another egg and doesn’t want us to know until it’s hatched.”

“Please stop trying to cheer me up. You only make it worse.”

The harshness in his voice made Crowley turn serpent, and he slithered downstairs to sleep under the angel’s arm chair again like he had many years ago. 

It had only been a week, but it felt much longer than that when Crowley heard the lock on the shop door crack open and the bell give a delightful little jingle. His tongue flicked out, tasting the air that wafted in. Feathers and powdered sugar and sweat. 

“Annie,” he hissed, slithering out to find his daughter closing the door and locking it after waving goodbye to someone in the street. Her hair was in a filthy, matted knot on the top of her head and she was wearing a revealing top Crowley had never seen before and pants that looked like they crawled out of the nineteen-seventies. Come to think of it, they looked like his pants from the nineteen-seventies.

“Oh! Dada, you gave me a fright! What are you doing up?” Annie asked when she spotted him. She was absolutely glowing, smiling from ear to ear with a light in her eyes he’d never seen before. How dare she be so happy when her father was upstairs crying his eyes out day after day?

“Where in the Hell have you been? Your father has been _crying_ over you!” Crowley hissed, turning human when his serpent voice couldn’t sound harsh enough.

Annie’s smile turned, not to a frown, but of a pout of disappointment—not shame! No, she showed no shame at all. She pitied them for worrying.

“How dare you leave without telling us!?” Crowley shouted.

“I didn’t mean to be gone so long. I went for a walk—”

“You were gone over a week, Antigone! I was looking for you everywhere! Your father is _crying!_ Annie, he’s _crying.”_ Crowley felt if he repeated it enough, she might understand, but it didn’t work. She was just smiling at him sheepishly.

“I didn’t mean to be gone so long. I would’ve left a note, but I got distracted. I found this dog when I was walking and started to follow him.”

“A dog!? Annie! You’re almost thirty. You’re following a dog around?”

“Yes, Dada, a dog. His name is Wrath.”

“Raph?”

“No, Wrath.”

“Raff?”

“Anyway, I followed him through the park and he showed me this beautiful little place just outside of town. I didn’t expect to be gone so long, but I found all these lovely shops and all these little bakeries. Look here—I even got something for Papa yesterday. As an apology for worrying him.” She was digging through a rucksack she’d never had before she met this “dog” and pulled out a pastry box.

“He’s not going to want it,” Crowley said, wanting for a brief moment to slap her. How could she be so careless? So inconsiderate? 

“I also learned something else, too, Dada.”

“That you’re lucky I’m not putting bars on your window? Or that you’re lucky I’m a demon and I believe solely in sparing the rod and spoiling the child?”

“Dada, look! I think you’ll be excited.” She set her bag down and clasped her hands in front of her. A moment later, large wings had sprouted from her back—larger than Aziraphale’s new ones in width and marked a soft gray with black tips at the end. “I have wings just like you guys.”

“You’re not going to distract me with this! Your father thought you left! How can you be so careless?” Crowley snapped. It explained the feather smell he’d always picked up, but at the moment he scarcely appreciated it.

“Dad! Stop it! I’m an adult! I can go out if I want to!”

“You’re still my child! You tell me if you’re going to leave! I don’t care where you go or how many eggs you lay or what the fuck kind of dog you chase around the street! You _tell_ me when you’re leaving! Do you understand?”

“Dada,” she said, that look of disdain in her eyes again.

Unable to help it, Crowley shouted at her—his fangs showing, his tongue forking against his wishes.

“Do you understand me!? Your father is _crying,_ Annie, and it is entirely _your fault!”_

Finally, the pride trickled out of her face and she was once again his timid little girl, looking at him with sorrow. 

“I… I’m sorry, Dada. I didn’t… I didn’t think I’d be gone so long. I didn’t think. It is my fault. I-I’ll go and talk to him,” she said, tucking in her wings. “I’m sorry.”

She scooped up her bag and rushed past him then, red tears rimming her eyes.

( ) ( ) ( )

Annie truly hadn’t meant any harm by it. After all, it wasn’t the first time she’d sneaked out her bedroom window when her fathers were in bed...grooming each other. She had started going on her own adventures shortly after her Dada had had his nightmare and went serpent for four months. It had been summertime, the season they typically went on adventures around the world together. Annie couldn’t teleport herself the way her fathers could, but she could still open a window and go for a walk. 

She took herself to the park, talked to the people she met there and sometimes brought food to the homeless who called her “Little Angel” each time they saw her. A man who looked to be about her Dada’s age used to try talking her into going back to his studio to take pictures, but Annie always told him no and went home. It was during these excursions that she’d found out their Chinese neighbor several blocks over had ducks they raised and sold, and watched a snake one night slither in and eat them up. She stole the eggs that were left and took them home to her Dada who finally stopped being a serpent just as summer was bleeding into fall. 

Too little, too late.

So, when she went on one of her usual walks after getting tired of hearing her serpent father humming in bliss while her angel father combed his wings (really strange mating ritual those ones had, she thought), it wasn’t her intention to be gone for long. She planned to circle the block, bring some sandwiches to the homeless clan she had befriended by the bus stop, and circle back home. 

Only after passing out the sandwiches, she noticed a man standing by the building across the way watching her. She could smell him more than anything, a musky odor that sent her creeping in his direction.

But once she’d touched the street, he’d morphed into a dog and started running. She called after him and chased him, running faster and faster until she realized she wasn’t touching the ground anymore. She was flying, great big wings flapping above her. And when she went to land just in front of the huge, golden dog—her legs were long and thin and white with long black talons.

Well, she thought, that certainly explained the eggs.

“What do you want?” The dog growled at her, not so much a dog but a wolf with yellow and gray fur.

“Why were you watching me?” She’d asked, feeling her beak move. A beak! It was all so disconcerting and for a moment she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to change back. 

“You’re Antigone.”

“Yes. And you are?”

“Wrath.” Something about the way he growled it set her heart alight. 

They talked at each other for a moment, then turned back to their human forms. It came much easier than Antigone had expected, and the two walked around Soho, then further and further through the city. Sun rose, sun set. He bought her clothes when hers became dirty, bought her food when she decreed she was hungry, and they may or may not have made a little nest somewhere on the hillside overlooking the city lights late in the evening. 

He told her that her red hair reminded him of magma and fire, and she told him his yellow hair reminded her of sunlight in spring. He hated that comparison and told her he never wanted to see her again, but Annie noticed that as he was running away—a wolf once more—he kept looking over his shoulder and panting. Because he wanted her to follow him home, and Annie couldn’t do that. 

She started her trek home, getting food from the patisserie for her Papa, realizing all too suddenly that it had been several days and he was bound to be worried. And now here she was, trying to offer him pastries only to have him slap them away.

“I don’t want _food,_ Annie! I want you to _understand!”_ It was the same conversation she had had with her serpent father and it was hard not to roll her eyes. 

“And I do! I’m sorry, Papa. I got carried away. I met a boy. You know how tempting boys are,” she said, trying to smile at him in hopes he might go easier on her. From the looks of it, though, he did not know how tempting boys were. 

“Annie, I took over six millennia to agree to a _date_ with your father. I certainly didn’t go sneaking off with him in the middle of the night and—”

“Worry your parents? You haven’t got any, Papa. Nor does Dada. Come on now… I didn’t mean to. It was an honest mistake. Days go by so quickly when your heart is aflame.”

“And who even is this boy?” Her Papa asked, his eyes looking so forlorn. “What respectable young man keeps a young lady out for days on end?”

“He said he has two mothers—and lives where it’s very warm,” Annie said, by way of explanation. 

Her Papa pondered this a moment, then his face grew very pale. 

“And I don’t suppose you two stopped to sleep at all the week you were gone. Did you?”

“Well, we certainly slept at least once. And I ate a lot, but he didn’t want anything except coffee.”

“And you told your Dada this?”

“No. He wouldn’t listen. He was too content to scold me and tell me off for making you cry—and I _am_ sorry I made you cry. I don’t ever want to make you cry, Papa.” She then hugged him because she knew he was a sucker for it.

“You do realize,” her Papa said, holding her tightly in return, “that you most likely spent your night with a demon?”

“I don’t think so,” Annie said, pulling back from him after kissing his cheek. He smiled a bit at that, then dropped it as quickly as he noticed it—trying hard to be stern with her.

“Well who else do you suppose lives where it’s _very hot_ and doesn’t need to sleep?”

“But demons don’t have parents. Wrath has parents. Two mothers. Just like you and Dada are for me—two fathers.” 

“Wrath? His name is _Wrath?”_

“Yes. What’s wrong with that?”

“Wrath… Like...like rage? Like anger? Like hatred? Wrath! He’s definitely the child of demons!”

“I’m the daughter of a demon. What’s your point?”

“Crowley—ah, your father is not like the other demons! Your father is good and loving and very, very nurturing for a demon.”

“Yes. I’ve seen what he does with the plants,” Annie said, fixing her father with a tired gaze. She’d heard it all before, countless times when she was a child. Other angels were bad, other demons were bad, but their little family was good and special and nice. 

“My point is—”

“Papa, listen… I don’t plan to see him again. It was just a little fling. He wanted to take me to meet his mothers and I came home instead.”

“A fling!?” Her Papa said, as if that was somehow worse.

“Yes… I might need to have Dada check my next egg.”

“Annie, oh—oh, Annie, _no!”_

And, at the sound of his distress, her serpent father burst into the room all in a tizzy. 

“I won’t have you upsetting him, Antigone. I told you already—”

“Dada, he’s fine.”

“He’s _not_ fine! You’ve got him crying again! What did you say to him?”

“I made a joke!”

“Well don’t joke with him! You’ve hurt him enough!”

“And what about you, Dad? What about the times _you’ve_ made him cry hiding out as a snake under his chair?”

“We’re not talking about me!”

“Please stop. The both of you,” her Papa said, sounding so tired and so sad. It did put a seed of shame in her and Antigone went quiet. 

“I won’t have her disrespecting you. She can do what she wants to me—but not you.”

“Really, Crowley, I am fine. Just...emotional. It’s been a long week. But all that matters now is she’s home and...hopefully no worse for wear.

Her serpent father stood in the doorway looking gloomy and Annie could tell if it weren’t for the dark sunglasses, he would be scowling at her. 

“I think it best if you went to bed, my dove,” her Papa said, patting her shoulder. 

“Alright, Papa. I’m sorry about...well, everything. I really didn’t expect to be gone so long. It won’t happen again.”

“You bet your ass it won’t happen again,” her other father seethed.

“Crowley… Please. Drop it for the night. I’m just glad she’s home.”

“You’re soft,” her father hissed, or something that sounded similar. 

Annie hugged her Papa goodnight, then stood up from his bed and pick up the pastries he’d chucked aside.

“Are you sure you don’t want them? I mean, I guess their kind of smashed up now—”

Before she could finish talking, her serpent father had skulked over and snatched the box from her hand and, with the snap of his fingers, opened it to reveal an unblemished collection of little cakes and sweets she knew her Papa would love. 

And his face did soften at the sight of them.

“Get to bed, Annie,” her Dada said with heavy sigh. She took the risk of hugging him, knowing how quick he was to turn on himself the moment he got his emotions back under control. She didn’t want him to think she hated him because he’d raised his voice and go serpent for the next ten years. 

He twitched in her arms but didn’t hug her back, and Annie picked up her bag from its spot by the door and went back to her own room for the night. Tonight, she stayed there.

( ) ( ) ( )

“She told me you’d need to check her next egg,” Aziraphale said, looking sadly at his half-eaten box of pastries. 

“Not surprised. If it was the child of a demon, tempting is all he knows...this Raff character.”

“Wrath, dear. Wrath.”

“Wrath? Oh, hell. It’s no wonder demons shouldn’t be having kids. They don’t even have enough imagination to pick a name for them.” Crowley was laying on the bed now, picking at a little tart and eating the fruit off the top of it.

“Do you think they sent him for her? Like…to get our attention.”

“It’s possible. That or he’s sneaking off just like she’s sneaking off because he’s bored and immortal.”

“I hadn’t realized the Lord had blessed more than just us with children.”

“Yes… It is concerning. I wonder if it’s part of the big plan. If they’re the harbingers of something bigger. The next great war,” Crowley enunciated, looking at Aziraphale through his dark lenses. 

“I hope not… Annie is such a small thing.”

“A bird,” Crowley said dismissively. 

“What’s that?”

“She’s a bird. She showed me her wings. Didn’t she show you?”

“She didn’t show me anything! Why did you get to see and not me?”

“Because she likes me more,” Crowley said. Aziraphale glowered at him and snatched the tart away from him, just to prove his point. “I _was_ going to eat that, you know?”

“Well I don’t think you deserve it. Even if you are her favorite, she brought them for me.”

“Oh, Angel… I was kidding. Of course you’re her favorite. You’re an angel. You have to be. I’m just—”

“The cool parent. Oh, I know what you are. Taking her to the rain forest and the mountains and deep sea diving. Meanwhile all I do is take her to restaurants and show her books.”

“Annie loves books,” Crowley argued, rolling onto his stomach and placing his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder, much in the way he often did as a snake. It made Aziraphale a little bit weak for him when he was like that. 

Tonight, a bit weaker than normal.

“She’s growing up, isn’t she?” Crowley asked, sounding far away.

“Yes. I do suppose so.”

“And she’ll move out. Leave the nest… Lay eggs and have hatchlings.”

“Yes. I am afraid that day will come.” Aziraphale didn’t like thinking of it any more than Crowley seemed to like mentioning it.

“And we’ll be alone again.”

“She’ll visit, I’m sure.”

“I want hatchlings,” Crowley said, almost a whisper.

“I’m sorry?” Aziraphale asked, feeling his cheeks heat up at the implication.

“Hatchlings. I want some. We could have more…”

“I… I don’t think the Lord intends to give us any more, Crowley. I’m… I’m sorry. Annie is more than enough.”

“I want more,” Crowley repeated, sighing heavily. “We could buy the crib together this time. Pick out the furniture. You could name this one… Maybe a boy?”

“I-I don’t think it’s… No, I don’t think it’s wise to let you go on with this.”

“Why? We _were_ told to be fruitful. Fruit _ful_ typically implies more than one. I’ll carry it, if that’s the problem. If you don’t want to. I’m sure I could...”

“It’s… It’s out of the question. I’m sorry. Just because Annie is acting out doesn’t mean we need to write her off all together and make a new baby. These are just her wild teenage years. It’s exciting!”

“Exciting? Yes, watching her make you cry is so very exciting,” Crowley grumbled, rolling onto his side so as to tangle his legs with Aziraphale’s. “Or was this just payback for me turning snake when I was upset? Because I really don’t like you hiding up here all by yourself.”

“I was afraid something happened to her...but I think I knew she had just run away. And I knew if I got up, I’d go looking for her… And it would hurt me so terribly if...if she were to see me and run farther.”

“I don’t think she would’ve run from you, Angel. I think she probably would’ve waved hello and tried to introduce us. She’s empty-headed, that one. Doesn’t think things through. I don’t doubt she forgot what day it was while she was with that guy.”

Aziraphale sighed and set his box of pastries aside, wrapping his arm around Crowley instead and holding him. His mind was racing countless different directions—wondering what to do about Annie, if anything at all; wondering what to do about Crowley clinging to him, asking to be intimate with him in the most indirect way possible; wondering if another baby did, in fact, sound like a good idea. 

“I am going to miss our little girl,” Aziraphale finally said. 

“We could have another...” He sounded so hopeful and Aziraphale couldn’t bring himself to outwardly reject the suggestion again.

“Perhaps we could, but...it wouldn’t be Annie.”

“It wouldn’t have to be. I don’t want _another_ Annie. I like the one we have well enough—but a second… That just feels right. Don’t you think?”

“Crowley, I can tell you’re trying to tempt me and I’m sorry, but the answer is no.”

“I’ll carry it. If the Almighty doesn’t want to send another Express Overnight Delivery, I’ll go the long route. I’ll carry it. I can be female for...for nine months or nine years or how ever long it takes to cook a demon-angel baby.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Aziraphale said, shaking his head. He could see it now, Crowley looking like a grouchy old woman, heavily pregnant and turning serpent every time she got into a mood. 

Crowley sighed, finally seeming to give up, and set to picking at the threads of Aziraphale’s nightshirt. 

“We could always...do what people do to get a baby. Just for the fun of it...”

“Wh-What? And be like _Annie?_ Disappearing to who knows where and—and doing _that!?”_ The thought left Aziraphale blushing like mad. They had scarcely, if ever, so much as hinted at touching each other beyond kisses and preening. Crowley had always seemed as disinterested as Aziraphale—and had, in fact, said that he hadn’t ever lain with anyone. Humans didn’t capture his interest that way and Aziraphale felt much the same. The chemicals that encouraged humans to procreate just didn’t exist in their bodies—they had no need for them. Celestial being didn’t reproduce...at least not typically. 

He guessed the mechanics of it could work though, if they both...thought about their bodies enough to form that particular anatomy.

“We wouldn’t have to go anywhere… We could stay right here. Just a thought, Angel. We don’t have to. I won’t make you. I’m just as fine without. Promise.” As if to prove his sincerity, Crowley pressed a kiss onto Aziraphale’s neck and then shuffled further down the mattress as if getting comfortable enough to sleep.

The whole topic left Aziraphale ill at ease, and he found himself stroking Crowley’s thick hair in an attempt to offer comfort—not sure if it was helping or making matters worse as Crowley kept letting out tiny sounds, almost as if he were in pain.

“Can I clean your wings?” He asked. 

“I… I suppose if you wanted to,” Aziraphale answered, shuffling a little to make room for them before letting them unfurl. Crowley rolled onto his back, propping himself up against Aziraphale’s chest and arm—which was wrapped lovingly around his waist—and pulled one of the wings toward him. He ran his fingers through the white feathers somewhat longingly, then began working loose ones free. “Are you alright, my dear?”

“’Course. Am I not allowed to dote on you once in a while?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean that. You just seem… Are you upset with me?”

“I just asked if I could preen for you and you’re asking if I’m upset with you…”

“Perhaps this is all just getting to me… I should be quiet.” 

“Don’t want you to be quiet… You haven’t talked to me in days.”

“Ah, see? You don’t like it so much when the tables are turned.” Aziraphale tightened the arm he had around Crowley’s chest and smiled at the demon who was transfixed by his feathers. 

“I’m needy.”

Aziraphale continued smiling at him, stroking Crowley’s hair with his free hand while his husband sighed softly and continued stroking his feathers. For the first time, oddly, Aziraphale thought, it felt quite nice to have Crowley preening for him. Not the usual nice—a sort of warmth in his heart from knowing he had a partner who cared so much for him—but a different one, someplace else. It left him humming the way Crowley often did whenever Aziraphale tended to his black wings. 

It truly did feel quite pleasant—oh, very, very pleasant. Before long, Aziraphale had his forehead pressed down against the top of Crowley’s head and was breathing heavily, even though he didn’t need to. 

“Everything alright? You’re not going to start crying on me, are you? My hair takes special conditioner—your tears will dry it out,” Crowley was mumbling. 

“I’m fine. That feels nice. Keep going.”

“Oh—Oh! Oh… Oh, yes, of course,” Crowley seemed to work his fingers through the layers upon layers of feathers a little more diligently.


	4. Chapter 4

“Nope. Nothing,” Crowley said, snapping his fingers and sending away the egg while his daughter and husband laughed at him sheepishly. 

They both looked so relieved and Crowley was left feeling disappointed. He wanted _hatchlings,_ and the absence of a pulse in his daughter’s latest egg dashed that hope. He left the room while Aziraphale and Annie started a very serious, albeit awkward, conversation about how this couldn’t be the norm—how she couldn’t expect her father to put himself through the ordeal of checking each and every egg because she made poor choices. 

What Aziraphale didn’t tell her was her father was a baby-crazy snake who sulked every time the egg lacked a pulse. A whopping three times a year. 

Annie had just turned thirty, and acted a ripe eighteen. She knew everything about everything, should be allowed to do whatever she pleased without question, and disappeared in the matte black Ferrari Crowley had purchased for her birthday so she’d stop asking to learn how to drive his Bentley. 

Sometimes, she would be gone for a day or two, but knew to send a message to Crowley’s phone so he could let her Papa know she’d be back. Every now and then, she’d come back with a boy and Crowley would do what he did every time—turn into a serpent and wrap around his throat.

And the one smart ass she brought home who said it was okay because he liked to be choked got his neck bitten by six-thousand-year-old demon. That sent him running and Annie yelled at her father as if she had any right. 

She left that night and was gone (with a curt text) for almost four days with Wrath. She sent a cheeky little photo of the blond demon offspring who looked...vaguely familiar. Crowley couldn’t place him, nor could Aziraphale. 

“Maybe… Maybe he looks a little like...Newt. Do you remember Newt? He was such a nice young man…”

“Does not look like Newt! This punk is a blond!”

“Annie does look happy with him,” Aziraphale mumbled, sipping at his tea sadly. 

“He looks like a shagger.”

“I think that is the technical term for him, yes,” Aziraphale mumbled. “He’s certainly not making anything respectable of her.”

“Does she want made respectable? All Annie’s ever done is...run off.”

“I guess you’re right,” Aziraphale said with a sigh. 

“What is it, Angel?” Crowley asked, reaching over and placing his hand on Aziraphale’s thigh. 

“Nothing...”

“Angel...”

“I… I used to worry about Annie and...and her finding love. I didn’t want her to fall in love with a human and have to suffer through losing him. I hadn’t thought that we would raise a little girl who...who just runs off with strangers. I was never—You were never…!”

“We’re not human.”

“Neither is she.”

“Aziraphale, she’s a teenage girl. I’ve tempted plenty of them in my lifetime. I tempted the first of them! It’s...divine retribution. It’s my fault. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, it’s not your fault. Perhaps we just...weren’t attentive enough when she was little. I’ve been reading all these articles—”

“Ah, you read the one… Oh, what was it? ‘How to Talk to Your Daughter About Laying Eggs’?”

“Crowley...”

“All I’m saying is our daughter isn’t going to fit in with any of those magazines. She’s half demon. Demons tempt people. _And_ she’s half angel. Angels _love_ people… Put them together and…?”

“Oh… Oh, dear. It does make sense…”

“It’s a shame though,” Crowley added, picking at his nails. 

“Hm?” Aziraphale leaned forward in his seat a bit, looking to Crowley attentively. He looked so adorable that way and Crowley almost forgot what he wanted to say, too busy looking at his partner’s lips and the little sheen of tea wetting them. “What’s a shame?”

“Annie can tempt anyone she sees but I can’t even tempt her father into letting me groom his wings anymore.”

“Oh, that,” Aziraphale said, his cheeks turning red. “I-I just...haven’t needed it lately.”

“Are you...” His chest seized and Crowley shook his head. He didn’t want to ask. No matter what Aziraphale’s answer would be, Crowley would end up turning serpent to avoid it. 

“What is it?”

“No… It’s nothing, Angel.”

“Crowley? What were you going to ask me?”

“You don’t want me to preen for you anymore. It’s alright. I probably pulled too many feathers the last time...” Crowley felt his tongue forking in his mouth and had to swallow hard to get it to go back to normal. 

“It’s not that I don’t want you to, it’s just...sinful.”

“Sinful? Since when?” Crowley asked, lowering his sunglasses. 

“Since… Since ever! It’s sinful. I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You do it for me,” Crowley protested.

“Yes, and you’re a demon. It’s alright for you to sin. I’m an angel. I can’t.”

“You didn’t mind before… You let me for hours. There was that one night we groomed...we groomed each other for weeks! Why don’t you want me to touch you anymore? Is it what I said about the hatchlings?”

“No!” Aziraphale said, his cheeks still red. 

“It is, isn’t it? I can’t get eggs out of your feathers. It doesn’t work that way. Surely you know how _that_ works!”

“It’s not about the hatchlings! After… After that night Annie ran away and you...you preened for me, it felt _different._ It felt...wonderful.” 

“So? It’s supposed to. You’re supposed to preen—you’ve gotta get the dead feathers out and straighten them and...and put conditioner on the prickly ones. I like to preen. It’s supposed to feel good to preen.”

“Well it felt...sinful.”

“It’s just your wings… I miss them,” Crowley said, turning away from him and staring instead at one of the bonsai trees. It was under-performing and about to get fed to a paper shredder in front of all the others. Crowley would see who had the last laugh then—watching one of their own get their heart tossed into a blender.

“I don’t want to Fall, Crowley.”

“You won’t Fall—no one’s Falling. We’re married in the eyes of God. She gave us our daughter. We have _permission!_ And it’s just preening!”

“I know… But the last few times...I’ve _felt_ things,” Aziraphale said, looking into his now empty teacup. 

“I noticed that, too,” Crowley said, patting Aziraphale’s thigh to keep the angel from slipping away. “It’s okay, you know? It’s hard to resist me when I’m working my charms.”

Aziraphale grabbed his hand and squeezed it, offering him a weak smile. 

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Angel?” Crowley said, his mouth suddenly dry and his tongue feeling far too thin. 

“Hm?” Aziraphale was looking at him expectantly again and Crowley could only focus on his lips. 

“I think… I think I need more. Or—Or would _like_ more. I would _like_ more, Angel.” Crowley glanced at Aziraphale’s face and was met with such a shocked expression that he had no choice but to look away from and scowl at his trees.

“How much more?”

“I don’t know… Forget I mentioned it. It doesn’t matter.”

“Crowley—”

“I said it doesn’t matter. Where is our daughter? I’m sick of this...” Crowley stood up from his seat and, not sure what else to do since turning serpent wouldn’t get his frustrations out, knocked over the tree that had been laughing at him all night. 

“Crowley! What a mess you’ve made!” Aziraphale said, getting up and setting his cup aside. 

“It didn’t make the cut,” Crowley hissed, more irritated when Aziraphale miracled the plant upright and healthy again. “Stop helping them!”

“It’s what I do! Please don’t take your frustrations out on the greenery.”

( ) ( ) ( )

“Dada, if you’d listen to me, I’m telling you—I can fix all these problems,” Annie was saying, rolling her eyes at her father who was pouting and picking apart one of the succulents in front of all the others. 

He did this from time to time when he was upset about something. Currently, he was blaming the succulent he was dismembering for producing an offspring that didn’t perform properly. It was a thinly veiled insult, but Annie didn’t particularly feel like pointing it out.

“You can make your father talk to me again? I doubt that.”

“Well, stop trying to force yourself on him and he’ll stop being shy. Papa is...delicate. Think of him as—”

“I know what he is! I’ve known him longer than anyone else on this planet has been alive! He’s too proper.”

“He’s shy, Dada,” Annie said, finishing up with her task of re-shelving the books. They hadn’t had a customer in ages—everything having gone digital in the past few years—but the shop remained open and just as unwelcoming as it had been during her childhood.

“He doesn’t feel the same about me anymore.”

“Don’t say that! He’ll hear you and you’ll break his heart.” Her sentence was punctuated with a scream as her father, in the form of a big, black snake, collapsed onto her shoulders. 

“Annie!? Is everything alright?” Aziraphale was sprinting down the steps from above. 

“Yes, Papa. Dada is just throwing a fit again.”

“Crowley, there’s dirt everywhere!”

“They were laughing at me,” her Dada hissed from his place on her shoulders. 

“The only thing laughing at you is the voices in your head, you mad, foolish serpent,” her Papa said, coming over to them and yanking the serpent right off her shoulders and draping the thick body over his own neck. Her Dada’s head lifted up to rest in her angel father’s golden curls, poking his tongue out to taste the air. “How is the re-shelving coming?”

“Wonderfully. I have them by order of year you met them.”

“I haven’t met all of them,” her Papa said thoughtfully. 

“Oh, I know. I put the ones you haven’t in the back.” Annie was smiling at her serpent father who was watching her from atop her Papa’s head while squeezing his body around her angel father’s ribs. “You know, you two are very cute together,” she said with a wink. It made her Papa blush.

“Thankssss,” her serpent father said, shaking the tip of his tail as if he thought he were a rattle snake. 

“I was wondering, Papa, if I could go out tomorrow night. Wrath has invited me to meet his mothers and I think this time, I might like to go.”

“To Hell?” Her angel father asked.

“Do you hear your daughter? She wantssss to go to Hell.” Her serpent father slid down to her Papa’s shoulder and pressed his nose against his ear.

“I wouldn’t go to stay. We’ve been seeing each other off and on now for quite a while. It seems appropriate.”

“Why not...why not invite them here instead?”

“Out of the quesssstion,” her Dada hissed. “I don’t want to ssssee any of them.”

“They’re not going to bother you, Dada. Wrath told me the demons still think you’re immune to Holy Water.”

“That’ssss suspiciousss becausse the angelsss figured it out.”

“If you don’t want me to go, I won’t—”

“Won’t tell usss, you mean,” her Dada hissed, winding around her Papa a few times quite aggressively. 

“Annie, just be safe,” her Papa said, sighing. “It’s like I keep telling you when you disappear all those other nights, seeing who knows...who.”

“I was born to join in Love—not Hate, Papa!” Antigone said, chuckling at him. “I really can’t help it. I can feel them all, their hearts, out there beating. I just want to go meet them and share in them. I can’t resist them any more than Dada can resist you,” she added with a sly little smile.

“Me? What in Heaven’s name are you talking about?” Her angel father asked, blushing a faint pink.

“Oh, I think you know quite well,” she winked at her serpent father who would probably be blushing too if his skin wasn’t covered in shiny black scales. “So I can go?”

“Please just come home soon. I don’t want to be left wondering if you got kidnapped. Hell is _not_ a pleasant place.”

“You really are the best, Papa,” Annie said, kissing him on the cheek only to have her Dada climb onto her shoulders and bind them together. 

“I don’t like thissss,” he hissed, squeezing them both by their shoulders.

“Crowley, we’re fighting a losing battle. Haven’t we learned already?”

“Our houssse, our rulessss,” her Dada hissed.

“What if I bring them back with me? Then you can meet his parents.”

“No. Out of the quesssstion. I told you. I don’t want to ssssee any of them.”

“Then I won’t and I’m sssstill going,” Annie said, intentionally sticking out her tongue far enough to jab her serpent father in his red and black cheek. He jerked his head away and slithered back over to his husband. 

“Fine.”

“Then you and Papa can be alone and ruffle each other’s feathers,” she said, smirking at them as her Papa’s face turned even redder. “I’ll make sure to shout when I get home so I don’t walk in on anything.”

“N-Nothing to walk in on, my dear,” her angel father said, chuckling softly. “Let’s make tea, Crowley. Annie, do you want any before you go?”

“Yes, that sounds lovely.”

“A soup mug for you, my love?” Her Papa asked the snake on his shoulders. Her Dada gave a curt nod. 

Annie stayed for tea, helping tilt the cup for her serpent father who slithered back and forth between her and her Papa. 

“Pleasssse be ssssafe tonight, Annie. Demonsss are not good people.”

“Oh, I know. Wrath is anything but gentlemanly.”

“Then why, pray tell, are you going?” Her Papa asked.

“It feels like the right thing to do. There’s many hearts in Hell, too, Papa. I’d like to meet them.”

“Don’t have ssssex with demonsss!” Her Dada hissed, sinking his fangs partially into her hand. 

“Ow! Don’t bite me! That hurts!”

“Crowley!”

“Lisssten to me!”

“I won’t!” Annie said, knowing they were all aware it was a lie.

“I’m not checking any more eggsssss!” He bit her again and Annie splashed her tea on him to get him to let go.

“You’re injuring our child!” Her Papa exclaimed.

“There’sss no blood.”

“You’re mean,” Annie said, crossing her legs and sipping her tea while her Dada slithered back over to the comfort of his husband’s lap. “Yes, go bite him. I bet he likes it.”

“Annie!” Her Papa cried out, face redder than a lobster as he spilled his tea onto his lap. She couldn’t help but laugh at him.

“Oh, Papa, it’s just a joke. Do calm down.”

“My—My trousers! Oh… Oh dear! This stain will never come out!”

“I know another stain that’s hard to get out,” Annie mumbled, just to watch her Papa fumble a bit more. He ended up spilling more tea on himself and somehow managed to fall out of his chair at the same time. This caused her serpent father to collapse onto the floor as well, turning into his human form as he did. 

“Annie! That’s awful! Don’t say those things!” Her Dada hissed, helping her angel father back onto his feet and doing that thing he did where he snapped and the stain was gone.

“Oh—Oh, thank you, my love,” her Papa said, looking at her Dada in the way he always did when his pheromones started pumping. They didn’t realize it yet, but Annie could smell them. Love, to her, especially the physical kind, was like a secret language she had learned. Secret glaces, secret gestures, secret scents and tastes on the air… Her Dada was the worst about the scents. She was honestly surprised her Papa hadn’t smelled it. Or maybe he did and just didn’t realize it. He was an angel after all… They seemed unaware of a lot of things. 

Her Dada, on the other hand, definitely couldn’t pick up on the angel’s signals. He seemed to take a smile for rejection when all her Papa wanted when he smiled like that was a steamy kiss on the mouth. And probably to get his wings touched. Them and their freaky mating/not-mating rituals.

She left them to clean up their mess and went to her room to change, picking out a dress that was long on the bottom and low in the front. Wrath’s parents may be demons, but it didn’t mean she couldn’t dress respectably.

Her parents were still standing by their chairs when she came down to leave, talking in circles about preening again. She rolled her eyes at them and cleaned up the succulent her Dada had ruined. She wasn’t exactly positive either of them had a true gender, but she wished they would each decide on something get past this idea that touching their wings was intimacy. They really needed to just take the plunge and stop tiptoeing around it. One day, she told herself. One day they’d figure it out.

She bid them a quiet goodbye and slipped out the front door while they were still arguing, her Dada doing that thing he did where he said exactly what he wanted and then turned around and said he didn’t want it at all. 

She made it about four blocks before she felt a sharp nip on the back of her calf. Turning around, there was Wrath, a bright gold jackal snarling at her. She went crane and walked alongside him, her wing draped over his back. 

“Hello, love,” she said.

“You’re late.”

“Papa and Dada were having a moment.”

“When do they not?”

“When they’re sleeping, I assume. How are your mums?”

“Bitching and fighting and being a royal pain in my ass,” Wrath barked. 

“Is it a wise idea to come to dinner if they’re that upset?”

“My mothers always fight. It’s the only language they speak.”

Annie hummed at that, then pecked at an insect on the ground just to see it die. She couldn’t help it. It was an instinct. 

“So what are their names?”

“Michael is the blond. Beelzebub is the other one.”

“The other one? No hair for her then?” Annie asked. Beelzebub. That sounded familiar… Perhaps she’d read it in one of her father’s books.

“She’s got black hair. Real control freak. I hate my mother.”

“Oh dear. I don’t think I could possibly hate either of my fathers.” The word hate coming from Wrath didn’t mean so much to her anymore. He’d told her he hated her countless times. Just as he told her he hated sunlight and moonlight, food and drink, sex and sleeping. Hate, Annie had mistakenly thought, was Wrath’s demon word for Love.

“Is either of your fathers the prince of Hell?”

“I didn’t know your mother was royalty!” Annie said, playing dumb to change the subject. 

“I hardly call being one of the princes of Hell royalty. How do you not know this? Don’t your fathers tell you anything?”

“Dada would… But Papa always stops him. He’s _very_ protective.”

“The angel is protective. Who would’ve thought.”

“Don’t be a dick or I’ll hack up all your mothers’ food onto your plate in front of both of them.”

“Are you planing to dine as a bird?”

“Why not? You’re always a jackal.” She used to call him a wolf, but he became very adamant that a golden wolf was a jackal and she should address him properly. 

“Mother is a fly. You’ll peck her to death. On second thought—come as you are. Peck her wings off for all I care. Less time I have to spend listening to her buzz around.” 

“What’s she done to you to make you so mad?” Annie asked. It was a silly question. Wrath was aptly named because literally anything and everything made him mad. Lucky for him, all that anger and passion made for a great time in the sack. 

Or the grass. Or the park bench. Her father’s throne…

Ah, that had been a lovely, scandalous time.

“She’s the most irritating demon in existence. Always bossing everyone around. She makes up work for her disciples to do. Makes it up! Fake faxes! On broken fax machines. Mother says she’s absolutely pathetic—and a coward. You know she let your fathers ruin the Apocalypse?” 

“Well, it’s thanks to them that we’re here!”

“I’d be here regardless. My parents are demons and Hell would’ve won.”

“Mmm… I don’t know. I think Papa would’ve led the angels to victory.”

“Your father is a pansy who can’t even loosen up enough to get laid.”

“That’s not for you to say, and I resent that,” Annie said, clicking her beak irritably. 

“It’s true. I’ve heard you complain enough.”

“I just want them to discover the miracle that is love! Deep, steamy, physical love! Your mothers know about it.”

“What my parents do is hate fuck.”

“Oh. Oh my. What lovely visuals before dinner,” Annie said, ruffling her wings as they made their way to the underground. 

The next thing she knew, she was in her human form walking alongside Wrath whose clothes had turned from their usual rich leathers and cotton to tatters and rags. She checked her own dress nervously and found it perfectly intact. 

The smell was terrible, but that she had anticipated. What she didn’t expect was the mass of people—of demons—bustling around her like zombies. They all had terrible looking skin, either pock-marked or rotting. Some had no skin at all, but exposed bone and blackened strips of rotten flesh. Some had eyes, some gaping sockets, some had eyes that were bloody and red—others solid black.

She found herself grabbing Wrath’s hand and squeezing it.

“Don’t worry. They won’t touch you. You’re with royalty. Remember?”

“Right,” Annie said, taking in the hungry stares of the demons who all scuttled past. They looked at her greedily, some even sneering. 

As she was led down the hallway, she could’ve sworn she heard somebody mutter “Crowley.”

The place felt all too much like a hidden bunker—all dim fluorescent lighting and cramped, concrete walls. She was led around and around until she was most definitely lost, then yanked in through a doorway where, mercifully, there were only two people standing and waiting. 

One was tall and blond and had a vicious grin that seemed almost stapled onto her face—razor-blade teeth shining in the dim entrance hall. This one had to be Michael. Something about her demeanor made Antigone uneasy. She didn’t so much feel greeted as long awaited—like an executioner waiting to slice the head off his sister’s murderer. Perhaps it was unsettling as well that Michael looked almost human—the way her father looked almost human—and lacked the eerie eyes or rotting flesh of the demons outside. Her dress was almost the spitting image of Antigone’s, only red.

The other, Beelzebub—a prince of Hell!—was much shorter and dressed in a black suit with a red sash around her shoulder and waist. (If she was a prince, Antigone thought, didn’t that make her a he? It was all very confusing.) What struck her most about Beelzebub was the long stripe of a rot slashed across her face and the flies buzzing around her that she didn’t seem to notice.

“Fix your face, you crotchety old thing, our son’s brought us company,” Michael said, her voice sharp, eyes fixed on Antigone and not her wife.

In the blink of an eye, Beelzebub looked human the way Michael and Annie’s father did. She had a hat in the shape of a large, red-eyed and fluffy fly atop her head and Annie couldn’t help but grin.

“How cute!” She exclaimed, then covered her mouth quickly, realizing that was probably not how the prince of Hell wanted to be addressed.

“Excellent. Where did you find this one? The Chattering Order of St. Beryl?” Beelzebub asked, her voice monotonous yet somehow catty. It reminded Annie of her father and she couldn’t help but smile more. 

“No, you out-of-touch idiot!” Michael hissed, her voice making Annie’s flesh crawl and dot with goose flesh. “This is the daughter of the demon Crowley. Can’t you tell?” For Annie, that stapled on smile never left Michael’s face.

Beelzebub rolled her eyes and seemed to slump in on herself in annoyance—like a child that had just been told there would be no desert and it was time for bed. 

“Well, that’s even worse. Send her off. I don’t want that father of hers snaking down here stirring up trouble.”

“Oh, I don’t think Crowley would come down here in a million years. Do you, Annie?” Michael asked.

Annie didn’t want to answer her. In fact, she wanted to back away and leave, but Wrath’s hand on the small of her back kept her pinned. 

“I… I think he comes here all the time. Yes—All the time, in fact. He gets quite a kick out of no one noticing him,” she lied. It must’ve been a good lie, because everyone’s faces drooped with horror.

“I would’ve preferred one of the nuns,” Beelzebub said before turning around with disinterest and walking further into the rather spacious living quarters. Annie guessed she should’ve expected as much from a prince of Hell. Rich carpets covered the floors and ancient, well-tended tapestries covered the walls. There were chandeliers all glistening with actual candles lighting the ceilings and torches along the wall. All the furniture looked exquisite and antique.

Annie would’ve thrown herself down on one of the red couches if she weren’t afraid Michael would lunge on her and tear her throat out the moment it was exposed. Something about the demon woman left Annie so, so ill at ease. 

“Dining room is this way,” Wrath said, his hand still on her back and now pushing her forward into the living quarters, through the room and down a hallway. Annie half expected an army of demons waiting around the corner to seize her and take her prisoner.

She understood now why her fathers had warned her so much against coming here. She didn’t doubt they could smell her fear the way she could smell their lack of love pheromones. The only thing this place stank of was sulfur and hate.

But alas, she made it to a dining room in one piece. Before her was a long and ornate wooden table, places set for at least thirty guests though only four chalices of wine were set at one end of the table. A blood red runner extended the length of the table, accenting the red napkins and place mats. 

Another glistening chandelier swung menacingly back and forth overhead. 

“We’re having steak tonight,” Michael said. “We hope you like yours rare.”

“Rare is the only way to enjoy a steak,” Annie said, sitting down into the chair that Michael, not Wrath, pulled out for her. She found it rather odd that Michael sat at the head of the table and not Beelzebub. That put Beelzebub at Michael’s left and Wrath on her right—and Annie next to Wrath, diagonal to Beelzebub who had absently started chewing her thumb nail. “Stop that! What a nasty habit! We have company.”

“I’m a _demon,_ in case you forgot,” Beelzebub snapped. 

“Well, we’re in the presence of a little half-angel. Show some _fucking_ decency,” Michael hissed, brandishing a fork at Beelzebub who stared her down and chewed her nail.

Wrath was smiling at Annie in a “told you so” fashion, and Annie was busy watching the spectacle while trying to taste the air. There was no love here, not even mistaken passion. Just hate and rage. How had these two been blessed with Wrath?

Or was it _cursed_ when you were in Hell?

“Bring the food!” Beelzebub called, sounding disinterested and tired.

“Try your wine,” Michael said, grinning at Annie.

Annie smiled awkwardly and nodded, a trait she’d picked up from her angelic father, and put the rim of the glass to her lips. She did not, however, take a drink.

“Oh! That is scrumptious!” She declared, making a show of licking her lips while—she noticed—Michael and Wrath sunk in on themselves. “Is everything alright?”

“Where’s the food!?” Called Beelzebub, louder now, but still as if she couldn’t be bothered to care.

A few moments later, a man—if he could be called that—with an opossum on his head, came in carrying a tray of dazzling China plates. A small glass salad bowl was sat down, then a plate of practically raw and bleeding steak with asparagus and a small bit of potatoes, and a tiny bowl of ice cream. All were set down at once.

“Demons don’t wait for it to be time for dessert, dear,” Michael said, her stapled-on grin making a comeback. 

“Neither does my Papa,” Annie said, picking up her tiny silver spoon and dipping it into the ice cream that had already begun to melt.

“You mean the angel?” Beelzebub asked. Annie looked up at her and smiled—trying to overcompensate for how much of a jerk her wife was. 

“Yes. He loves sweets. Can’t get enough of them. Once he learned he could breathe Hellfire, he was delighted to find he could scorch his own banana foster.” She smiled at Michael as she said that part, watching the way that woman’s face drooped. 

Annie had been told about her fathers’ ordeals in Heaven and Hell respectively, and she wasn’t about to let doubt cloud these demons’ mind. Her father was not one to be messed with—neither of them were.

“We see that you’ve become immune as well. To Hellfire and Holy Water,” Wrath said, his voice harsh as he grabbed his knife and stabbed into his steak.

“I have always had a resistance to both. It only makes sense. What about you?” She asked, not really comfortable with the topic of best murder weapons against the ethereal and occult.

“Don’t know. Definitely don’t burn up in Hellfire though. Not like my mums keep vases of Holy Water laying about.” Wrath used his knife like a fork, holding up the steak whole and taking a bite from it like the animal he was. Michael grinned at him fondly and Beelzebub was also, like Annie, eating her ice cream quietly. 

“Do tell us, dear thing, what’s it like in that little bookshop of your father’s? Nice, is it?”

“Very nice,” Annie said, sucking on her spoon. “Papa reads most of the day and eats. Dada scares off all the customers and tries to kill my boyfriends.”

“That’s all he does now? The great demon Crowley? Lays around a bookshop hissing at teenage boys? What a pathetic, sorry, sad sack,” Beelzebub grumbled. Annie, for the first time, realized a lot of the prince’s ‘s’ sounds had a very distinct buzz to them.

“You’re a fly!” Annie exclaimed, beaming at the prince who dropped her spoon when Annie raised her voice.

“However did you guess?” Beelzebub said, deadpan expression on her face as she collected her spoon again. “Is it written on my face or something? About my head perhaps?” She added, gesturing to the hat she wore. 

“Does my dad have a snake head when he’s down here?” Annie asked. “Or...Or a snake on his head? I noticed the opossum.”

“When your father was in Hell, he mainly spent his days as a snake. Tangling up everyone’s feet and making them fall. It was a solution to a problem sending him up to cause trouble in Eden. Didn’t realize how much of a problem he would cause there too.”

“I think his biggest downfall was falling in love with Papa,” Annie said, smiling and trying to move around a bit in her seat to give off her own pheromones. Maybe it would help with all the hate.

“If we’d known that would be the case, we would’ve kept him down here on shred duty,” Beelzebub muttered, finishing off her ice cream.

“And we would have kept that pesky angel on desk duty,” Michael said.

“You were an angel?” Annie asked, earning a sharp glare from both of Wrath’s mothers. She anxiously set aside her ice cream spoon and began picking at her salad while her steak bled in front of her. 

“We all were. Except for Wrath.”

“I just meant… Dada never mentioned even seeing Papa before he Fell. I was just surprised that...that you knew Papa before...you Fell,” Annie said, looking to Michael who was not so much grinning now as holding back a scream between tightly clenched teeth. 

“This is so very annoying. Which one is which? Is your Daddy the snake or the angel? For Satan’s sake, use their names so someone can follow along,” Beelzebub snapped.

“Sorry. Papa is what I call my father Aziraphale.” 

No one said anything and Annie turned her attention to her bowl of salad. It was mostly dressing and that was perfectly acceptable for her. 

“So… How did you two meet?” Annie asked after no one said anything for a very, very long time. 

“I dragged her out of the lake of sulfur,” Beelzebub said with disdain, picking up her steak with her hand and taking a bite of it that way. Blood ran down her arm and soaked the cuff of her black jacket. “She couldn’t swim to shore. I thought it was a good thing to help her. Apparently, doing a good thing when you’re a demon means you get punished with an eternity of suffering.”

“Unless you’re Crowley,” Michael said, quite bitterly. 

Annie had a feeling she had not so much been invited over for dinner, but so Wrath’s parents could get a look at the joy their enemies had. He had done it to anger them. 

“Well, I’d save you from the lake of sulfur,” Annie said, smiling at Beelzebub who finally looked something other than bored. Now she looked taken aback and horrified. 

“Child, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I invited you to dine with my mothers, not fuck my mothers,” Wrath barked at her, his mouth full of half-chewed steak.

“Can’t you all please show _some kind_ of table manners!?” Michael yelled, slamming her fists down on the table. She had allowed her ice cream to melt into a puddle, had finished her salad, and had been in the process of cutting her steak into tiny little cubes. 

Something about her demeanor made Annie think she hadn’t Fallen that long ago. 

“I think I should go,” Annie said, squirming in her seat a bit. “It seems I’ve made all of you quite angry.”

“Sit still… You haven’t finished eating,” Michael said. 

“You can’t leave yet! The night hasn’t even started,” Wrath complained. Suddenly, here in Hell where his clothes were rags and his skin looked ashen, Annie wondered what she’d ever seen in him.

“I liked the pork better,” Beelzebub said, as if wanting to chime in but really having nothing of consequence to say. 

“No one cares what you like!” Michael snapped, her shrill voice making Annie’s ears ring.

“Perhaps...if you’d like to come by for dinner sometimes, Papa might let me use the kitchen to make pork chops. He doesn’t eat pork himself.”

“He wouldn’t,” Beelzebub muttered. “He’s an angel.”

“No, it’s not that… He got a bad pork shank once. Hasn’t been able to eat it since. Same with squash. He used to love squash.”

“Can angels _get_ food poisoning?” Wrath asked. “I didn’t even think you monsters could digest things.”

Annie’s eyebrows shot up her forehead at the way Wrath so casually referred to his mothers as monsters. It reminded her of her father’s nightmares, and how he’d been afraid Annie would think of him as some kind of monster when he got stuck between his human and snake forms. It had to hurt them to say such a thing… He didn’t care about them at all.

“He gets stomach upset just like anyone. I think Dada—er… My dad Crowley,” she corrected when Beelzebub rolled her eyes, “doesn’t eat much because it upsets his stomach. He always told me he prefers his meals to have a pulse.”

“Well, he’s a snake. Snakes eat things that are still half-alive,” Beelzebub said, taking another bite of her steak.

Annie had yet to touch hers.

“I’ve seen him as a snake,” Wrath said, lapping at the blood on his knife. “Great big snake. I wonder if he’s ever swallowed a person.”

“I doubt it. He’s gone native. He loves humans and everything they stand for.”

“What I want to know,” Wrath said, speaking over top of Beelzebub, “is why, if he’s a snake, he’s got wings like the angel. Yours burnt off in the sulfur,” he said, pointing his knife at Michael. “And yours turned to flies,” he said, pointing to Beelzebub. “So what’s he got wings for?”

“Wings?” Michael asked, her lips curling into a sadistic sneer. 

Annie was about to speak up, make up some excuse about her father not being a good enough angel or bad enough demon to lose his wings, was rendered speechless before the words could even start.

“He’s only got the one.” She sounded so pleased when she said it. Her voice sounded like a laugh, the kind of laugh Annie gave when boys complimented her dress and she said her Papa gave it to her and they grew uneasy. 

“No. He has two. I’ve seen ‘em. I’ve seen those two with their wings out. It’s what they do in bed most the time.”

“How long have you been watching my fathers?” Annie asked, finding it hard to swallow. 

Her fathers had told her about the trauma her Dada had faced in Heaven. How he’d been attacked and dragged from his home, beaten and tortured by three angels Up There. Three angels who had laughed in his face as they broke his wings and tore one completely off. Abused him so badly he was left with nightmares nearly any time he slept. Those angels had Fallen…

Michael was one of those angels, and Wrath was her son.

“Just a bit here and there,” Wrath said. “Good to know what kind of family your girlfriend comes from.”

“I’m not your girlfriend,” Annie said, quite sternly as she pushed her plate away. “I want to leave.”

“What’s this about? Wings?” Beelzebub asked, wiping her hands on her napkin. 

“I think the poor dear just realized who she’s dining with. Ooh, poor thing. Don’t worry. We’re not here to hurt you,” Michael said, grinning from ear to ear. 

“Whatever this is, I want no part in it,” Beelzebub said, pushing back her seat and standing from the table. “If anyone needs me, I’ll be seeing to the workers and making sure they’re buzzzy.” The z came out so forcefully that Annie wanted to say that the prince of Hell was nervous. She didn’t have long to dwell on it. With Beelzebub gone, Annie realized that she was in very poor company. That there had, in fact, been a small whiff of love in the room—and that brief scent was gone the moment Beelzebub left.


	5. Chapter 5

Whatever the worst thing imaginable was, Crowley had found something certainly worse. He hadn’t seen his daughter in two full days, and knew full well that she spent the time in Hell. Aziraphale was trying to wear a brave face and Crowley was trying to stay in his human body so as to not leave his partner high and dry with only a cold snake for comfort.

“She’s just out there...being fruitful,” Aziraphale would tell him, a sad frown on his lips. Or, other times, he would say, “You know, time passes differently Up There. I’m sure it’s the same Down There, right? Perhaps they’re just getting through their salads.”

Only they both knew that was false.

“He took her,” Crowley finally admitted to himself. “That demon took her to Hell and they’re not letting her out. I have to go get her.”

“Don’t be silly! They’ll kill you if they so much as see you Down There!”

“They’ll kill Annie! They might’ve already!” Crowley yelled, what was left of his composure breaking.

“Don’t be silly. She’s gone off like this before—for longer, even! Crowley… My darling, please sit down.”

“Something is _wrong!_ I can _feel_ it! I can’t just sit here and let them torture our little girl!”

“And suppose you’re wrong? Suppose she’s down there carrying on, joining in ‘Love,’ and you barge in in the middle of it?”

“Then at least I know she’s alive! And there’s no Love in Hell, Angel! Only hate! And you know who else!”

And by the look on Aziraphale’s face, he did know who else. Gabriel. And Michael. Uriel. All three of them Down There burning. Living it up as demons. 

Crowley was about to protest further, but there came a knock at the door and his stomach gave a terrible lurch. He wanted to go serpent, but he was frozen. His mind torn between the gaze he had fixed on the locked door to the bookshop and the door to his apartment decades ago. 

He could smell angels. 

“I wonder who that is,” Aziraphale said, stepping toward the door. Crowley grabbed his arm painfully hard, making the angel cry out and fix with him a very unkind glare. “That hurts, Crowley.”

“It’s an angel. Can’t you smell it?” He hissed. “Stay back.”

“I’ll have you know, I am an angel. And any angel that ever did me any harm is...in Hell,” he said, realizing the weight of what he’d just admitted.

“Hello? Is anybody at home?” Called a voice Crowley did not recognize outside the door. 

“Just a moment!” Aziraphale called, prying his arm away from Crowley and stepping up to the door. He moved aside the little curtain that covered the glass, then jerked backwards as if burnt. “It’s Sandalphon! And Annie!”

“Annie!” Crowley said, his legs seeming to develop a mind of their own and driving him forward. He no less than shouldered past Aziraphale to yank the door open, breaking the frame in his haste because he hadn’t even bothered to miracle it unlocked. “My, God, Annie! Where have you been!?” He grabbed her in his arms, his tiny child who was anything but small, and she trembled in his embrace. Her hair was matted again, her skin streaked red in blood. Her wings were extended, he realized—well, one of them at least. The other was low to the ground, cracked in three places and left dangling. 

“I’m sorry, Dada. I am!” She sobbed into his chest. He held her tighter with one arm while slowly reaching out with the other to touch her damaged wing. She screamed against him and he carefully slid his hand along the bone, feeling it all crack back into place as it should be. Her wings fluttered a few times, then disappeared as she held him closer. 

“What’s happened?” Aziraphale asked, somewhere behind them in the doorway. “My God! Annie—what happened to her?”

“Ask _him!”_ Crowley spat, jabbing a hand at the angel standing beside his daughter before pulling her away, back into the safety of the shop.

“May I come in, Aziraphale?” The angel, Sandalphon asked. 

“Yes, yes—of course. Do come in. I’ll put on some tea,” Aziraphale said, somewhere behind Crowley who was taking his daughter to his throne where he sat her down to take a proper look at her. Her face was streaked in tears of blood which his snapped away in an instant, her lip bloodied and split. All of her fingernails were either chipped or broken, her skin bearing scratches over nearly every square inch he could see. Her dress, hanging on her frame in tatters. 

“What did they do, my darling?” Crowley asked, kneeling before her and rubbing her shoulders. “Who did this?” He asked when she did not answer. 

“Wrath,” she cried, bowing her head. Crowley couldn’t bear to see the shame in her face. He knew that boy had been bad news, he had warned her, but he had hoped he was wrong. He had hoped that she knew something he did not. “And Michael,” she added. “Oh, Dada… I should’ve listened.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Crowley said, running his finger over her bloodied lip, both healing and cleaning it. “None of that matters now. You’re home. You’re safe. They won’t dare come here.” His eyes started to sting and despite his best efforts, Crowley could feel the first of the tears glide down his cheek. “My dear Annie… How did this happen?” He asked, taking each of her hands into his own and kissing them until he had willed them healed—her nails long and pretty and polished once again. 

“We were having dinner,” she said, pausing to sniff. “I didn’t realize his mother was… I didn’t know Michael was...”

“Did they make you fall? Make you...think you were falling?” Crowley asked, trying desperately not to remember either of the times he’d Fallen—for real or in Heaven’s torture chamber. Despite his efforts, more tears fell from his eyes. 

“No,” Annie said, shaking her head sorrowfully. “We were having dinner and...Beelzebub left. I-I made to follow her—”

“Wrath’s mothers are Michael and Beelzebub?” Crowley asked, horror sinking its teeth even deeper into his throat. He could think of no greater match made in Hell, except perhaps Gabriel and the prince.

“Yes. She left the room and I followed her. We talked just a moment outside the kitchen, I think, and next thing I know I’m… I’m in the dark and Michael is there. She’s a monster.” Annie looked at him with pure terror in her eyes. “She’s the devil.” She collapsed into tears and Crowley took her into his arms again, slowly working through the tangles and knots in her hair. 

“I’ll kill them for this,” he whispered, holding her tighter still. 

“Just don’t go down there. Dada, you can’t. They have a trap for you. You can’t go...”

So that was it, he thought, drying his tears on her shoulder. They hurt her to get to him, to tempt him to go Below—to finish what they’d started in Heaven. 

If that was the case, however, why was another archangel here in their shop? Crowley couldn’t bring himself to let go of Annie long enough to go find out.

( ) ( ) ( )

“So it was...Beelzebub who—”

“Yes. Strange, I know,” Sandalphon said, setting his teacup down onto the little plate he held in his hands. “It’s been my duty since the...the blessing of you and Crowley to answer prayers for those otherwise seen as undeserving.”

“So… So God _hasn’t_ forsaken all of the Fallen.” Aziraphale felt his heart warm at the thought. Mostly for Crowley’s sake. What would he think when he heard?—When he’d recovered…

“Not entirely. The angels in Heaven are, well, held to a new standard. We’re being assessed for our goodness. You are, too, just not by us anymore. You, my friend, answer to Her and Her alone.”

“And...what of Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, quick to get his mind off the idea that the Almighty was watching his every move herself—unfiltered.

“Crowley is not to be bothered by any angel besides yourself. It could be said that he...answers to You and You alone.” Sandalphon smiled at him what seemed nervously, and took another sip of tea. “This is delightful.”

“It’s rosehip and chamomile,” Aziraphale said, returning the nervous smile. It was a lot to unpack, thinking of himself being directly watched by the Almighty—and Crowley being his responsibility in the eyes of the Lord. 

“It’s positively delightful,” Sandalphon repeated, staring at his reflection in the tea. 

“So… So it was you who rescued Annie? Because...Because _Beelzebub_ asked for it?”

“Prayed. The prince of Hell _prayed_ for it, if you can believe it.”

“And the Almighty...wanted you to answer that prayer?”

“It might play a factor, too, that Antigone is one of the Lord’s gifts. Our God does not look favorably down on those who cause harm to Her greatest creations.”

“I just cannot believe that _the_ Beelzebub prayed!”

“Well, it wasn’t exactly a _formal_ prayer. I don’t think demons quite know how to do that.”

“But if Beelzebub… With the influence that Beelzebub has, why couldn’t he interfere?—Or, or she?”

“I don’t know. It seems Beelzebub, however they’re identifying these days, has a weakness for Michael. You know, they pulled her out of the lake of sulfur. It won’t kill a demon, but it’s not exactly the sort of hot spring they enjoy going swimming around in.”

“Perhaps it’s the wickedness in Michael that drew Beelzebub in,” Aziraphale said, pondering it while taking a sip of tea.

“Anyway, by the time I got there, Antigone had gotten free and was running through the halls of Hell. Hastur was there… Awful guy. I managed to get to her and take her hand before he caught up to her. It seems everyone in Hell wants a piece of Crowley and they used Wrath as bait to get his daughter.”

“We tried warning her, but...if we’d told her no, she would’ve gone anyway,” Aziraphale said, looking sheepishly at the archangel.

“She’s not commanded by her own will, Aziraphale. She’s celestial, like ourselves. Our ‘free’ will only takes us so far.”

“I don’t understand,” Aziraphale said, setting his tea aside. He had experienced what he believed to be free will for six millennia. He lived with a demon! And ran a bookshop and drank tea and ate food instead of traveling the world performing miracles as he knew he was supposed to.

“Annie and Wrath aren’t the only two of their kind. The Lord has a plan. I don’t know her plan for—for who can know the mind of God? Hm?” Sandalphon smiled as if Aziraphale should understand with that information alone. “The Lord has made embodiments of all that commands humans. All that makes humans...Fall, if it were.”

“Sins?” Aziraphale asked, thinking at once of Annie and her late night adventures, romping around with boys—joining in Love.

“Yes. There will be seven. Right now, there’s just the four. Wrath…. Aptly named, don’t you think? Born to Beelzebub and the demon Michael. Lust, your beautiful Antigone. Pride, a darling little girl they call Delilah, born to the...demons Gabriel and Uriel.” It was plain to see how uncomfortable it made him to speak of his former colleagues as demons. “And a little boy, he’s just now turning one, born to humans, if you’d believe it! Sloth… He’s very… Well, he’s a very sleepy baby. Cute as a button.”

“Humans were gifted an immortal child?”

“They won’t live long enough to notice, I’m afraid. Human lives...so short.” This time, Sandalphon’s smile seemed sad. “You know… The Lord is a bit upset that you… Well, to put it in polite terms, since we are _polite_ company—The Lord appears a bit chided that you two did not...accept her blessing.”

“Whatever could you mean? We love our blessing! Antigone is our whole world!”

“Oh, Bless!” Exclaimed Sandalphon, laughing heartily. “Of all those who received or will be receiving these precious gifts, you two—you and the demon Crowley—are the only ones who received a direct blessing from the Metatron. She told you to be fruitful...and then, in a wild act of defiance, the demon tempted you to forsake that blessing and buy citrus trees instead.”

Aziraphale felt as if his mind had been wiped clean—his cheese, so to speak, sliding off his cracker—as if any thought he’d ever had had been whisked away except the day Crowley wandered around the shop speaking of fruit trees. 

“Good… Good Lord!” Aziraphale said, grabbing up his tea again because he didn’t know what to do with his hands. 

“Yes! You were supposed to consummate your marriage in the eyes of God and you...bought trees!”

“We thought...we were _supposed_ to buy trees,” Aziraphale said. “Fornication is a sin.”

“Not if you are wed! Good Heavens, read The Book!”

“I have!” Aziraphale said, crossing his legs nervously. “And anyway, Crowley didn’t tempt me to resist the will of the Lord we...we were confused! He’s really very...shy,” Aziraphale said, thinking back to that day. So much had happened and it was no wonder the whims of the Lord had gotten misconstrued. Why, humans had been misinterpreting the Lord for eons. “So, what you mean to say is, we were the only ones who got the Express Delivery of our little girl?”

“Yes. Everyone else gave birth. We’re really...quite confounded that you’ve been resisting the will of God after you received this special gift. She picked Antigone just for you. Lust. To help...speed things along.”

“Speed them along!?” Aziraphale asked, spitting out his tea. 

“You really do need to take the cotton out of your ears, Aziraphale,” Sandalphon said, smiling at him. 

“But… But it’s a sin! I am an angel—aren’t I? I am still an angel?” He had a terrible, gnawing feeling in his gut. How could it be part of God’s plan for him to sin? How was God taking his obedience as _dis_ obedience?

And to think of how Crowley had been practically _pleading_ with him for more and—No! No, he would not let his mind wander _there_ with Sandalphon before him.

“You’d be an archangel by now if you were a good one, but yes. You’re still an angel.”

“And the Lord _wants_ me to sin? Are you sure you’re not here to _tempt_ me, Sandalphon?”

“I am simply here to return Antigone home to her parents, offer the Word and wisdom of the Lord, and then return to Heaven to keep an ear out for others in need.”

Aziraphale hummed softly, then leaned over to peer out away from his desk, past some shelves, to the reading chairs where Antigone and her father were sat. Crowley had done a marvelous job cleaning her up, and was sitting at her side in Aziraphale’s chair, holding her hand and listening to her speak. 

“What happens now? To the people who hurt her?” Aziraphale asked.

“My mission was to save Antigone and deliver her home from Hell. That was all. I cannot damn a demon further. I cannot damn the offspring of a demon to be a demon. Protect your ward, Aziraphale. And I do think it wise if you keep your husband from going Below in search of revenge. The Lord will not protect him there. It’s a miracle the Almighty sent me to save Antigone from such an evil place—considering she went willingly.”

“But you’ve already said she has no will,” Aziraphale offered sadly. 

“Not as far as Lust is concerned. She is forever lustful. Wrath is forever wrathful. You can’t change them or heal them or preach to them to stop.”

Aziraphale thought it over a moment, looking into the bottom of his empty tea cup.

“Do you...well, I know you can’t _know_ the mind of God, but… Do you think, the Almighty might want for us to have some more...hatchlings?” Aziraphale asked, leaning forward again to look at Crowley. He hadn’t even realized he used Crowley’s carefully selected term for offspring.

“There’s no telling that except to see. The way humans must, I’m afraid,” Sandalphon said, smiling a rather facetious smile. “I do believe there are worse ventures to explore for the sake of God.”

“Yes...” Aziraphale said, looking from Crowley to Annie, then to Sandalphon and blushing when he saw the way the archangel was looking at him. 

“If I may, Aziraphale, I should like to speak to your demon a moment. Do you think you could pry him away from Antigone? I don’t supposed he would like any other angel getting between them right now.”

“What do you want with him?” Aziraphale asked, sitting up a little straighter in his desk chair. 

“Well, certainly not to break his wings!” Sandalphon said. “I refused to partake in that little experiment—and reported it to the Metatron when I saw they’d gone ahead and done it. A little late, I am sorry to say. I was on Earth, helping out with the babies.”

“I shall see if I can get a moment with him. He’s very upset,” Aziraphale said, standing up slowly and wishing he could refuse the request. He made his way over to his husband and child, feeling small even as the two gazed up at him from their seats.

“Papa, I am so sorry,” Annie said, breaking Aziraphale’s heart all at once. 

“No, darling! None of that. We’re just glad you’re home. So, so happy you’re home,” Aziraphale said, leaning down to hold her. Crowley was now looking at Sandalphon with distrusting eyes. “Crowley, he wishes to speak to you. Good things, I think. I’m right here if you need me.”

“He touches me, I’m going to turn serpent and crush his throat,” Crowley hissed. “Are you okay, Annie?” He asked, placing a hand on her shoulder, even as she was still hugging Aziraphale.

“Yes. I’ll be okay. I love you, Dada,” she said, looking to him sadly then closing her eyes as she squeezed Aziraphale a little tighter.

( ) ( ) ( )

“You know what that bastard told me?” Crowley hissed, pacing around their bedroom—occasionally pressing his ear to the closed door as if listening for Annie sneaking out. 

“He’s really not that bad...anymore,” Aziraphale tacked on. “Getting away from Gabriel did him some good.”

“He told me he was answering the prayer of _Beelzebub!_ Not my _Annie_ who was in _danger,_ but _Beelzebub!”_ His skin had been covered in scales since Annie went to sleep an hour ago, and his fangs could rival those of the Horsemen. 

If not for the fact Aziraphale knew the anger was a front for Crowley’s worry and pain, Aziraphale would’ve thought the thin, disproportionate serpent tongue that kept popping out to flick around in the air was cute.

“He mentioned that to me, too. I find it very odd. I guess the Almighty wants to show some...forgiveness towards those who are...Below?” Aziraphale offered, not quite sure that sounded right. 

“God isn’t forgiving any of the condemned. It was done to spite me!”

“I don’t think so, Crowley.”

“And my Annie...” Crowley let out a low groan, pressing his back against the door. “Why didn’t I stop her? They broke her wing! They shattered it like mine and were going to tear it off! What would I have done then? I can’t put it back on…” He sank to the floor, throwing his sunglasses aside and covering his face. 

“But her wing _wasn’t_ taken. She’s alright now, and she’s at home.”

“And they’re out there! Watching us! Waiting to take her back!” Crowley yelled.

“And that’s why you’re here,” Aziraphale said. “To swiftly send them back to Hell if they so much as look at our Annie again.”

“We need Holy Water… And to bless the shop. I’ll stay up here.”

“I don’t want to go keeping Holy Water in the house. Something could happen. I don’t want you to… I-I can’t. No.”

“Why do you always think it’s a suicide pill? Do I seem that weak? You don’t think I would stay and protect you?” When Crowley lowered his hands, Aziraphale was not surprised to see blood rimming his yellow eyes. 

“I know you would. But I don’t want it… I can’t have it near you. I can’t have you dissolve. I saw what that stuff does to demons. They put that little one right...right in the tub. It was like he’d been boiled from the inside out. To have that happen to you… I can’t!” Aziraphale said, feeling tears prick his own eyes. “I very nearly lost Annie tonight. Please don’t make me have to think about losing you.”

He watched, mournfully, as Crowley turned serpent before him. He had expected it, but it still left him feeling disappointed. It was for the best, he imagined. Crowley could work on sorting out his feelings without the added burden of keeping his body human. 

Crowley slithered up onto the bed, sliding along Aziraphale’s leg and up to rest his head on the angel’s shoulder. 

“They only took Annie to hurt me,” Crowley said, his tongue darting out and flicking against Aziraphale’s ear.

“Yes. I am certain of that too.”

“She’ssss ssso frightened.”

“I know. Perhaps you ought to sleep in her room tonight. Well, not sleep but...”

“She ssssaid to leave her alone.”

Aziraphale sighed and petted Crowley’s soft head, rubbing his fingertips over the glossy scales. 

“Are you going to be okay?” Aziraphale asked him, trying to read the expression in the serpent’s unblinking eyes.

“I don’t know… My chesssst hurtsss.”

“Mine too.”

“I want to kill Michael.”

“Me too… How could she have done such a thing to Annie?” 

Crowley had begun slithering back and forth across him—pacing Aziraphale’s body now instead of the room. Every now and then he’d bump his head into Aziraphale’s head or neck, once or twice against his lips. 

“You really are quite heavy to be doing this, my love,” Aziraphale said, laying still and letting the serpent do as he pleased. He really seemed quite alright as a snake, like he was agitated but keeping it together. Or he may have seemed that way to an untrained eye—or a being incapable of feeling the aura of pure distress coming off of the serpent in waves. 

A moment later, rather unexpectedly, Aziraphale had his demon clutching onto his chest and crying unabashedly in his shoulder. 

“It’s my all my fault. They only did this because of me. I hurt her… _I_ hurt her!”

“Crowley, no! No… Don’t say such a thing! It’s not your fault.” Aziraphale hugged him, not sure how else he could help but still preferring this to having Crowley turn serpent and hide it. 

“I knew I should’ve gone there to look for her after the first night… Why didn’t I? I could’ve saved her!” Crowley growled into Aziraphale’s shoulder, his hands grasping and clenching at whatever parts of the angel that were in reach—very nearly crushing one of his ribs. “They could’ve ripped her wings off. They could’ve! And there’s no one to give her feathers. God’s not going to give her mine.”

“Annie’s wings are fine,” Aziraphale said, running his fingers through Crowley’s hair, trying desperately to comfort him. “They’re not even broken now, thanks to you. You helped her.”

The cry that the demon let out said he did not agree.

“I thought the angels were all I had to worry about. It’s not worth it… Getting Annie hurt isn’t worth having an ‘our’ side.”

“It’s too late for that now,” Aziraphale whispered, kissing the top of Crowley’s head and nuzzling him, trying to show as much affection as he could in hopes it would stop Crowley from sinking any further. 

“I should’ve died up there. I wish it had been Holy Water they threw me in,” Crowley sobbed. “I should’ve just let them rip off my wings and not be a baby about it. Just stupid, worthless feathers.”

Fearing, and perhaps sensing, Crowley was about to unfurl his wings and break them like he had in the past, Aziraphale squeezed him tighter. 

“Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that to me. I would be so lost without you...”

“No...” Crowley mumbled, sounding so painfully certain. “You left me messages saying I was bad, saying I abandoned you. You wouldn’t have know. You wouldn’t have _cared_ that I was gone. You didn’t even look for me...” 

To that, Aziraphale could say nothing. So he laid there, holding Crowley who cried harder into his shoulder until, at long last, he went still and settled with his nose buried under Aziraphale’s chin. 

In his mind, Aziraphale was replaying that awful decade he spent alone. No friends, no companion, no serpent drinking all of his wine and tempting him out to lunch. He _had_ thought Crowley had just slithered away. He _had_ thought Crowley found something else to keep him occupied. Much like he had thought Annie had stayed out for two nights sleeping with Wrath.

“It was the worst mistake of my life,” Aziraphale whispered, holding back his own tears because they would only serve to make Crowley more upset. “I’ll never forgive myself for failing you. But we’re here now, right? Together. No worse for wear.”

“Why would Beelzebub pray to save my daughter?” Crowley asked, as if he hadn’t heard a thing Aziraphale said. Or maybe he just didn’t know what to say to him in response.

“Let’s not ask why. Let us just be grateful.”

“They’re going to come back for her...”

“Then let us be ready when they do.”

Crowley hugged him tighter, then let go entirely, rolling onto his other side so his back was to Aziraphale. 

“Do you want me to preen for you?” Aziraphale asked, rubbing Crowley’s back gently, cautious of the place where his wings would be if they were out. 

“No…”

“Do you want me to get you anything? Tea? Wine?”

“My eyes hurt, Angel.”

Aziraphale settled back against his pillows, knowing he wasn’t going to sleep—knowing Crowley wouldn’t sleep. It felt wrong, though, to lay there while Crowley was shutting down. All he could think to do was roll onto his side as well, pushing his knees against the back of his demon’s and burying his face in Crowley’s neck. He wrapped his arm around the demon’s waist and pulled him close, feeling Crowley’s chest fill with an unnecessary breath that he held, then let out in a long sigh.

“I love you,” Aziraphale mumbled.

“I love you too, Angel,” Crowley whispered. “I’m just tired.”

“You can sleep...”

“I can’t. It’s not the time to go having nightmares.”

Aziraphale kissed the back of his neck, at a loss for what to say. No words seemed to convey his understanding and his sympathy. Crowley hummed softly and pushed back against him, taking another deep breath. 

( ) ( ) ( )

It took a few days for Annie to leave her room again. As soon as that door opened, Crowley was on his feet, fleeing from the warmth that was Aziraphale’s embrace, and wrapping Annie up in his own. He asked her how she was feeling, then roused Aziraphale to make them all breakfast and tea. 

After food, they sat together in the shop, talking about anything except for what happened. Crowley, still not quite himself, kept an arm over her shoulders the entire time. Aziraphale read to them for a while—a long, long while—finishing several novels and a collection of poetry before Annie asked for pastries. 

Aziraphale leapt at the opportunity to dote on her, stating he would go get the best he could find and be back as soon as he could. It struck Crowley as odd that, before leaving, he not only hugged Annie but kissed Crowley on the mouth as well. In all their years together, he’d never gotten a kiss goodbye. It made him nervous for no real reason at all. 

Once he was gone and it was just the two of them, Crowley and Annie were left in awkward silence. She was flipping through a first edition Oscar Wilde, wearing protective gloves because Wilde was her father’s favorite. Crowley was in his throne, sipping more tea. He wanted to talk to her, but had no idea what to say—or which topic he wanted to broach first. Or if he even should.

“I know you want to say something. Just say it, please,” Annie said, making the decision for him. She only glanced at him a second before her eyes were back on the book.

“What makes you think I want to say something?”

“The way you’re looking at me...like you want to say something.”

“I don’t _have_ to say anything,” Crowley said, shifting around in his chair.

“But you want to.”

“No.”

“No? Dada, I know you better than that.” Her voice held no humor, no playfulness. Crowley was terrified that they’d killed all that was left of his little girl Down There, and left him with an empty vessel. He couldn’t blame her, though. He hadn’t been himself after his wing was ripped off either.

“I… I was just wondering...about Beelzebub,” he said.

“Beelzebub? Whatever for?” Annie asked, furrowing her brow as she examined an engraving in the book. 

“The angel said...he answered _his_ prayer…to rescue you.”

“Her, you mean? Beelzebub is a lady.”

“Not the last time I checked,” Crowley mumbled, finally getting the smallest of smirks out of Annie.

“I don’t think Beelzebub is all that bad. If what Sandy said is true—”

“Sandy?” Crowley echoed, sticking out his tongue as if a pet name for the archangel left a bad taste in his mouth. 

“—she only ‘prayed’ for me for one of two reasons. Either because she was afraid if I got hurt, that you’d come after them with Papa and Holy Water.”

“Or?”

“Or liked that I was nice to her and didn’t want to see me hurt.”

“But you _were_ hurt. And ‘she’ did nothing herself.”

“You didn’t hear this from me, but I think she’s gone soft...”

“How would you know? You’ve seen this demon once in your life. Beelzebub used to be my boss. He would sentence you to a thousand years of torture for looking at him funny. Makes sense he’s a ‘lady’ now. Moody thing, he was.”

“She’s married to Michael. Michael is ten times more wicked than her… I feel sorry for Beelzebub.”

“The prince of Hell doesn’t need your pity. Next you’ll be saying Hastur just needs a vacation.”

“Hastur smells and he’s got a very bad temper,” Annie mumbled.

“I wish I’d stopped you going… You should never have had to meet those demons.”

“I’m glad I went.”

“You’re what!?”

“I said I’m glad I went. It makes me see what Papa was always talking about when he said you were a special kind of demon. You’re really not like the others. I don’t even think you’re a demon at all. You don’t have some weird animal on your head.”

“I have my snake tattoo,” Crowley said, rubbing the bit of ink absently. 

“But you don’t have a big black snake curled up on your head.”

“I suppose not. Do you think I’d be scarier if I had a familiar curled up on me? Maybe right here? I could have it curled up like a bun on the top of my head.” He got a laugh for his effort and it melted his heart. A heart he supposed he couldn’t deny having anymore. “Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?”

“I’ll be fine when Papa gets back with the pastries.”

“But is there anything _I_ can do?” He asked, desperate to be of use to her.

“Promise me you won’t try going to Hell and doing anything stupid,” Annie said.

“I told you, I wouldn’t. My place is here. If I leave you, that angel… Oh—he’s a lost cause on his own.”

“I mean it, Dada. Don’t go back there.”

“I don’t plan on it. Just promise me you won’t either. Stay away from that place _and_ Heaven. The angels are just as bad as demons.”

Annie set her book aside and leaned over, placing her head on her father’s shoulder. 

“I promise I’m alright. So you don’t need to worry.”

“You’re not alright, and it’s too late for that,” Crowley said, stroking her long curls.

“I am, though. You fixed me up. Good as new.”

“Yes, and Aziraphale fixed my wings and healed my scars. And I have nightmares every time I sleep.”

“That’s because your wings were important to you. You’re attached to them. Mine are just...wings. It’s like I broke my arm. And you fixed it…”

“A broken arm is just as bad—”

“Dada… What you couldn’t fix is my shame. I’ve never been so ashamed as I was when Sandy pulled me out of that awful place. All those demons laughing at me, all those awful monsters around every corner. I knew it was my fault. My choices led me there and my choices alone. And I knew, every time Michael would hit me, I knew it wasn’t meant for me. She was hurting you and Papa. She was doing it to hurt you...and I’m the one who let her.”

“Annie, no… Don’t say that. I’m fine. Your Papa is fine. We’re… We’re going to pull through this. It’ll be like it never happened. I’ll do better to keep you safe. I won’t let you sneak off with any more boys. Not Wrath or Sloth or Gluttony...” 

Annie chuckled at that.

“Isn’t Gluttony my Papa? I’ve seen the way he used to eat sushi, before all the radiation got in the water.”

“Yes. I do believe you’re right about that,” Crowley said, thinking back on the same thing with a smile. Every bite of sushi seemed to make Aziraphale’s halo glow with how positively elated he was at the taste. Such a shame about all the mercury and radiation…

They sat together in silence for a while before Aziraphale returned with a cup of coffee he handed to Crowley with another unexpected kiss. 

“I didn’t think you’d want anything to eat,” he said before turning his attention to Annie. He showered her in six different kinds of pastries and gave her a sandwich he’d purchased at the shop next to the bakery in case she was hungry. Annie thanked him and split all of her pastries with her Papa who ate them happily, all the while passing odd glances at Crowley who didn’t know what to make of them.

Perhaps, he thought, the angel was trying to make sure he wasn’t on the verge of collapse the way he had been the night Annie was returned home. Truthfully, Crowley was a bit embarrassed at how he’d behaved, how much vulnerability he’d shown, but a lot could be said about the comfort Aziraphale had provided him. It felt better, infinitely better, to have cried while Aziraphale held him than it did to spend weeks on end as a serpent, choking down tears he had no way to shed. 

More days passed in peace, Annie becoming a little more and more like herself each day. She helped out around the shop, dusted the shelves and took care of the plants, while Aziraphale and Crowley guarded her from threats that had yet to arise. 

It wasn’t for another two months that danger presented itself again. Annie was in her room, practicing yoga and trying to “find her bliss” while Aziraphale reorganized his books and Crowley sipped lavender black tea he was not fond of. Florals had never been his favorite, but Aziraphale was on a kick again and the last thing Crowley wanted was to whine about tea of all things and upset him.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale called, around some shelf somewhere. 

“Hm?” Crowley’s eyes were scanning the tablet in his lap, reading the latest news in between pop up ads. Nothing of interest there as his plants had been performing well and weren’t in need of ominous relocation. No new stories about bonsais or succulents springing up in the pillow of a Canadian President.

“I’ve been thinking these past couple weeks...”

“And? Any conclusions?” Crowley asked, no idea what his angel was going on about. He hated it when their conversations started this way. He always thought Aziraphale would bring up something of importance, but it almost always ended in “I’ve decided on fish for dinner” or “the shop should really be expanded.” Things Crowley hardly needed consulted on at all. 

“Well… I supposed it might do some good.”

Crowley snapped his finger and sent the tablet he’d been trying to study away to some unseen surface in the shop. He wasn’t getting off the hook easily this time, it seemed.

“Having fish for dinner?” Crowley offered.

“Good heavens, no! Those farmed salmon just taste terrible! Why ever would you suggest that?” Suddenly, the angel was standing before him, trying to smile and just looking nervous instead.

Oh, so this was about _him,_ Crowley realized. 

“What is it, Angel?” Crowley asked, lowering his sunglasses in hopes it might influence Aziraphale to speak his mind.

“Well… I had thought maybe I had been harsh with you in the past.”

“Aziraphale, I can’t stand this. Tell me what you want,” Crowley said with a heavy sigh. He couldn’t bear to have the angel tiptoeing around him as if he were some delicate piece of glass one blow away from shattering. If this was how it was going to be after he showed his emotions, he would be certain never to do it again.

“Hatchlings,” Aziraphale said, licking his lips after the word was out, as if to savor it. 

“I-I… What?” Crowley felt certain he had misheard him. Their daughter had been captured and tortured, and there was Aziraphale asking for more. Knowing there were demons out there who wanted to hurt them—he asked Crowley to give them even more targets.

“I… I thought about it. I think I’d like...hatchlings, as you call them. I think it would be delightful to have another little one to—”

“To get hurt?” Crowley couldn’t help but snap, watching the smile bleed away from Aziraphale’s face. “To be tortured in Hell? Are you mad?”

“I… So sorry. I-I thought...you might—”

“Might want to have another with those monsters sneaking around our daughter?” Crowley couldn’t help the way it incensed him. He’d practically begged for more children when everything had been going fine, when Annie had just been sneaking off to have fun and showing more signs of her independence. He’d pleaded and Aziraphale curtly shut him down, told him it was unwise to even allow him to dream of it. “You’re out of your mind.”

Aziraphale was looking at him in a state close to tears. He said nothing, which only stoked the fire burning in Crowley’s chest. What right did he have to get all upset? Crowley hadn’t cried when he’d been turned down the _multiple_ times he had asked. Aziraphale had told him it wasn’t God’s plan for them, told him it was unwise to even let him fantasize about it—Aziraphale had taken his heart and stabbed it. Now, he was looking at Crowley like he was to blame.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Crowley hissed, crossing his legs defensively because turning serpent and biting his angel probably wouldn’t end well for either of them.

“I… I do apologize,” Aziraphale said, his eyes suddenly turning toward the ground. “You’re right. It’s… It’s the wrong moment. Where… Where would we even set up a crib anyway? Foolish idea… So sorry to have mentioned it.”

And then the angel was gone and Crowley was left seething alone, too irritated to return to his tablet. The succulent nearest him seemed to be withholding a chuckle and met an unfortunate end, smashed against the floor. Still unsatisfied, Crowley unfurled his wings and started preening. He did it for the sake of calming himself, focusing his energy on smoothing his feathers and taking out his anger by plucking the loose ones and trying—and failing—to throw them far from his body as he worked them free. 

A moment later, Aziraphale had reappeared again, only this time—before Crowley could even speak—the angel looked him over once and then just sobbed and walked away. What was that about? Crowley couldn’t even imagine, except that the angel was angry he was preening himself instead of asking for help.

For Satan’s sake, he couldn’t even groom without pissing someone off, Crowley hissed internally. He would do better as a snake.

So serpent he became, curled up in his own chair in his full-sized form. Coils of him spilled over the arms of the chair and his head was rested on the flourished peak of his golden throne. Let this form be a reminder that he was not to be messed with, Crowley thought, hissing and spitting venom just to see how far he could get it to go. One customer tried to come into the store, caught a single glimpse of him, and ran the very moment his tongue flicked out to taste them. 

Yes. He was, by far, the greatest, most wicked demon. 

“I don’t know what you’ve done, but you have Papa all upset.”

At Annie’s voice, Crowley lifted his head and stared at her. She was dressed as though it were winter outside, all wrapped up in a hooded sweatshirt and baggy sweatpants. Her hair was in a bun atop her head, all kinds of frazzled. When he tasted the air, he could taste sweat and feathers. She’d been doing yoga non stop for days.

“Aren’t you going to say something?” She asked.

“He sssstarted it,” Crowley hissed.

“Well you finish it,” Annie snapped at him. “I won’t have you two fighting like this. I’m over thirty and I’ve never seen you two make each other cry.”

“If he’sss crying, it’sss hisss own fault,” Crowley said, setting his head back down and staring at the door, hoping another customer would come in.

“Why are you so big right now? You look ridiculous in that chair,” Annie said, ignoring his statement all together.

“Thisss isss my true form.”

“I guess your body should fit your attitude then. Be a demon for all I care, but don’t take it out on Papa. He’s being weird up there.”

“Weird how?” Crowley asked, tasting the air—tasting specifically for Aziraphale and getting mouthful of paper and dust instead. Some dirt, even, from the succulent he’d killed.

“He’s picking out his feathers up there all by himself.”

“Do you need sssomeone to brush your hair for you every time? It’sss no different.”

“He’s not _grooming,_ Dada. He’s picking his feathers out.” Annie was scowling at him, her arms crossed over her chest. Crowley imagined telling her to go stop him herself wasn’t a viable option.

He pitched a heavy sigh and slithered off the throne, sliding over one of her feet as he passed—the way he might’ve touched her shoulder if he were in his human form.

“I’m making him cocoa,” Annie called after him. “He’d better be smiling by the time I get up there or you’ll be wearing it.”

“Sssoundsss lovely. Nicccce and hot,” Crowley hissed back at her as he made his way up the stairs. In this form, his body was so long his head was in the bedroom before his tail had even started up the steps. “Angel, what are you doing to yoursssself?” Crowley asked, seeing that Annie had in fact been correct. 

Aziraphale had a pile of feathers beside him on their bed and seemed to be in the middle of thinning out his right wing.

“Angel?” Crowley repeated when he got no answer. He placed his head on Aziraphale’s knee, only to have the angel push him away. 

“Stop. Leave me be, wretched fiend.” The insult, which no doubt had been meant to sound playful or at least in jest, came out with a shiver of pain. 

“Why are you plucking your feathersss?” Crowley asked, undaunted. He slithered up to wrap around Aziraphale’s arm, effectively making it too heavy for him to lift to pluck out any more of his plumage.

“Because it pleases me!” Aziraphale snapped. “Let me alone.”

“Angel… I’m sssorry. Don’t be upssset. Annie isss worried about you.”

“Ah, of course. _Annie_ is.”

“I am too,” Crowley protested, nosing at the pile of feathers only to get struck across the head by the back of Aziraphale’s hand. It caused him to recoil and stare at his angel in shock.

Aziraphale had never once lashed out at him—had never _struck_ him. If he’d been in his human form, Crowley was almost certain he would’ve collapsed into tears from the surprise. Aziraphale, his Aziraphale, had hit him.

“Cr-Crowley, I am so sorry!” Aziraphale said, seeming to get ahold of himself all at once. “Please forgive me! I don’t know what I was thinking I had no right… A-Are you hurt?”

“Takesss a lot more than a flick on the head to hurt me, Angel,” Crowley hissed, trying to sound amiable so Aziraphale wouldn’t get any more upset. This was getting them nowhere and he really didn’t want to fight. 

“Did I catch your eye? I think I hit your eye—Oh, good Lord. What is the matter with me?” Aziraphale moaned and covered his face. 

“You didn’t hit my eye. Don’t cry… I didn’t mean to make you cry, Angel. Pleassse don’t cry.”

“You were right. I had no business asking that of you given our circumstances. I… I have a confession to make.”

“Alright… But I’m not a priessst.” He meant it as a joke, but it didn’t seem that Aziraphale picked up on it.

“When Sandalphon came, he...he told me the Lord wanted us to have more. With Her blessing...I got carried away. I didn’t think of how it would hurt you. I turned you down so many times… The truth is, I wanted more as soon as we got Annie. I wanted more every time I started to realize she was getting older. I was afraid we had gotten all we were allowed and I was so ashamed of myself that I...I took it out on you. I wouldn’t even tell you I wanted the same things. I made you feel alone and I’m sorry. I am so sorry, my love. I’m so sorry, Crowley.” 

Part of Crowley wanted to show his anger that it took permission from Sandalphon, a bloody archangel, to get Aziraphale to want hatchlings with him, but anger wasn’t going to make anything better. They could fight—hiss at each other and pluck out their feathers from stress. He could tell Aziraphale he thought he was stupid and too concerned with being a good angel to be a good husband. He could say all sorts of mean, hurtful things. Instead, he chose to bump his serpent’s nose into Aziraphale’s cheek and nuzzle him.

“Maybe in a year or two we can have hatchlingsss,” Crowley offered. “Maybe when thingsss have calmed down a bit more. I do… I do want more. I’d have a dozen if I could. Do you think the Lord will sssend uss a doz—”

His question was interrupted by a loud crash downstairs that sent him to his human form and sprinting. Aziraphale was close behind him, almost falling down the stairs and taking both of them with him to the bottom.

“Annie!?” Crowley called, a serpent’s tongue escaping his lips to taste the air. He tasted fur. 

He tasted fur and sulfur and Hell. 

In an instant he’d turned back into his full-sized serpent, almost catching Aziraphale with his tail. Those stairs really were going to be the end of them.

The door to the shop had been kicked open, the frame hanging in splinters where the lock had been torn out. Crowley’s throne had been off-set, as had an entire shelf of books which were now laying in a disorganized, crumpled heap. Backed against the wall, beyond the shelf, was Annie—a jackal on its hind legs pinning her there and snarling.

Wrath. 

That had to be Wrath—and this was no friendly reunion.


	6. Chapter 6

"Get away from me!” Annie was screaming, trying to push away the jackal only to be bitten each time she tried. Her wrists were pouring crimson, as were her eyes from tears. 

“You’ll come with me! You’ll come with me, Annie! Mother still has so much left to tell you!” The jackal was snarling, laughing, through its bloodied fangs.

Crowley spared little time watching it. He lunged forward, dropping all the weight his Serpent of Eden could manage onto the jackal’s back. They crashed to the floor together, giving Annie enough time to slide away along the wall—toward her Papa who screamed for her.

As Wrath tried to get back onto his feet, Crowley swung his tail forward, hooking it as quickly as he could around Wrath’s middle. 

“Dada, don’t hurt him!” Annie was screaming, barely getting through to Crowley who was wrapping his body around the dog as quickly as he could. 

Realizing what was happening, Wrath was quick to double over on himself, sinking his teeth through the scales on Crowley’s back. He shook his head aggressively, tearing his way down to the bone while Crowley began squeezing him tighter—hissing and filling his mouth full of venom in order to strike. 

“Stop! You’re going to kill him! Stop it!” Annie was screaming, fighting against Aziraphale who had her caged in his arms—his wings out and encompassing them both.

“Release me! Release me now or I’ll call for her! She’ll finish what she started on Antigone!” Wrath was roaring, teeth still buried in Crowley’s back. 

His threats fell on deaf ears as Aziraphale was dragging Annie upstairs, his wings out and wrapped around her—protecting her with Heavenly Grace. As soon as she was gone, Crowley sank his fangs into Wrath’s neck, pumping his throat full of venom as the jackal screamed—his voice going human as his body transformed into one much easier to crush. 

Crowley wasn’t thinking, wasn’t fearing—wasn’t paying anything any mind as he wrapped his body in as many layers as he could around Wrath’s, crushing all of his bones while the now human-looking body in his grip convulsed. Crowley bit into this form’s throat as well, drawing blood and pumping more venom. So many bones were popping under the smallest force from his writhing coils. So many joints ground into powder as Crowley hissed a thousand years’ worth of rage in the dying body. 

He couldn’t stop himself. Wrath had stopped fighting, had stopped moving all together, and yet Crowley could not cease pulverizing him further. He didn’t stop until every single bone had been turned to dust and he was sure the creature—neither demon nor human nor anything else—discorporated. Died.

Suddenly, Crowley was all too aware of the pain in his back where he’d been bitten—all too aware of Annie screaming upstairs. He channeled all of his energy toward the bites, healing them painfully slowly, then—after assuring himself that Wrath was, in fact, no more—turned to his human form and pulled himself slowly, stiffly up the stairs. He’d definitely pulled some muscles doing that. All of them. He’d definitely pulled, if not strained, every single one of his muscles crushing that worthless worm.

“Annie?” He called, his voice even sounding strained. “Aziraphale?”

“Dada, what did you do!?” Annie screamed, coming out of his and Aziraphale’s bedroom. Her arms had been healed of their bites, but her eyes were still leaking tears of blood.

“I chased him off,” Crowley said, snapping his fingers behind his back and sending the corpse as far away as he could imagine—someplace in the dead of space. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Annie said, wrapping her arms around him tightly—sending a shockwave of agony through his body. Oh, he’d definitely pulled so many muscles. “Thank God you’re alright.”

“No!—Not that one. Don’t thank that one,” Crowley said, wincing as the thanks stung him almost like a blessing. He held her in return, peering over her shoulder at Aziraphale who was sitting on their bed, wings extended, looking like he knew more had happened to Wrath than being “sent away.”

“Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine, Annie. He bit me, but I’m alright. I healed. He’s not an angel. He can’t hurt me for too long.”

“Your voice is so strained,” Annie cried, pulling back from him and placing her hands on each side of his face. She was staring into his eyes with worry and it didn’t surprise him at all when she pulled away his sunglasses to further assess him.

“See? No worse for wear. Just worked out some muscles I haven’t tried in a few millennia. Hurts a bit, but I’m okay. Are you?”

“Yes—Yes, of course, I am. Papa healed my arms.”

“What happened?” Crowley asked her, pulling her into another hug at the memory of her bloodied arms.

“I don’t know! I was making cocoa and the very next thing I know, Wrath kicked in our door and he charged at me. He tried grabbing me by my sweater, but the arsehole ripped it! Look!” With a snap of his fingers, Crowley had fixed the tears without even having to see them. “Dada…” She spoke his name with scorn, but hugged him tighter and kissed his cheek. “Michael’s angry you didn’t go Down There to pick a fight with her. She had a trap ready for you. She and Hastur, I think. You didn’t go—I’m so happy you didn’t go—and so she sent Wrath.”

“Bitch is afraid of Holy Water,” Crowley hissed, squeezing Annie one last time before ending their embrace. “She’s too afraid of you to come here herself,” he added, looking to Aziraphale who had started picking at his feathers again. He had six or seven of the white feathers laying beside him on the mattress—healthy feathers with no need to be pulled out. “Stop that—you’re going to go bald,” he said, patting Annie’s shoulders as he walked past her in order to sit on the bed beside Aziraphale. He placed his head against the angel’s shoulder and sighed—it felt better already just to be sitting down.

Annie sank onto the floor and wiped at her face, calming down though still visibly shaken from the ordeal. Aziraphale seemed just as traumatized. No matter how much Crowley nuzzled him or pressed silent, little kisses to his cheek or throat, he continued raking at his feathers and ripping them out. Every single time Crowley would hear one pop free, he would hiss in pain as if they were his feathers and grab Aziraphale’s hands to stop him. It would work for a moment, and then he’d be back at it before Crowley—so, so exhausted and sore—even realized he’d let go of his hand.

“Well, it’s good to see you getting along so soon,” Annie said after a while, huffing a little laugh as Crowley lifted his head from the angel’s chest.

“Yes,” Crowley said, a faint hiss still in his voice as he moved to kiss Aziraphale’s temple.

“We weren’t fighting,” Aziraphale said, uselessly. Annie rolled her eyes at him. “Why do you think we were fighting?”

“Because you were plucking your feathers out and Dada was a serpent. What did he say that got you all upset?”

“It wasn’t your father who had me upset. I was just...emotional. It’s been—”

“Why are you lying to me?” Annie asked, earning a pained look from her Papa. Crowley couldn’t stand it. 

“We’re having hatchlings,” Crowley stated, earning him a sharp look from Aziraphale.

“You’re pregnant!?” Annie snapped, getting to her feet all too quickly. “You just got attacked! Is the baby alright?”

“Why do you assume I’d be the one pregnant!?” Crowley asked, perhaps inappropriately.

“We’re not having it right now,” Aziraphale chimed in quickly. “We… We were discussing the possibility of—of having another baby. But no time soon, my dear. As you can see, we’ve still got a lot to take care of first.”

“Because of me?” Annie asked.

“No. Because I don’t want to lay eggs right now,” Crowley said, not letting her take the blame. “Neither of us wants to carry it and your good friend ‘Sandy’ told your Papa that we have to do it ourselves this time. No more Express Deliveries for us.”

“Papa, you can’t expect Dada to carry the baby. He drinks too much!”

“I think he would be smart enough to know to abstain while carrying our child.”

“I’m laying an egg. I don’t know what any of you are talking about. If she gets to lay eggs, I get to lay eggs. I’m laying eggs.”

“So you two are finally going to stop pretending that touching each other’s wings is romantic?” Annie asked, seemingly relieved to have anything to talk about besides what had just transpired.

“It is romantic!” Her Papa exclaimed, blushing a dark red that made Crowley want to turn serpent in order to hide his humor. “Cr-Crowley—tell her! It’s just as intimate as anything she does! M-More so, in fact! I-It… It’s something only we can do together. It’s personal a-and...healthy.” His cheeks were so red, Crowley couldn’t help but press closer to him, absorbing his warmth and basking in his radiance. The angel was flustered, yes, but his mind was on preening and love, making his aura one of unimaginable comfort.

What if he’d gotten attacked, Crowley was thinking. What if he’d been downstairs making tea—if they hadn’t fought about having children—and Wrath had burst in and attacked him instead? Wrath was the product of two demons, did that make him as formidable to an angel as an actual demon? 

What Crowley knew, deep down beneath his humor and affectionate nuzzling, was Michael would come next. Or both of Wrath’s “mothers.” 

There was no doubt in his mind there was a trap still laying in wait for him in Hell, but staying put would lure the demons to him. To Aziraphale...and Annie.

It was all his fault. He had never imagined that making an “our” side would put Aziraphale in so much danger. He didn’t realize all the things he loved—Annie and his angel—would spend an eternity in danger simply for being precious to him. And he’d just told Aziraphale and Annie they were going to have another baby—just so he could put that one in danger as well.

It would be better for all of them if he just slithered back in time and slithered his way out of their lives all together.

Aziraphale could’ve found someone else… Someone who read books and liked floral teas. Someone who ate food and loved it as much as him. Someone not on the run from the monsters of Hell. Someone who wasn’t a monster himself…

“My darling? It’s… It’s alright.” Aziraphale’s gentle voice pulled him from his thoughts and Crowley realized with a start that he had tears on his face and Annie was gone.

Had he fallen asleep? What in the Hell happened?

“Is it...the hatchlings? I am sorry for how I brought it up to you. I wasn’t thinking. I really am a foolish, stupid angel.”

“No, Aziraphale,” Crowley whispered. “’S allergies. I’m allergic to dogs, I think. Got all that hair in my mouth.”

“You killed him, didn’t you,” Aziraphale said softly, wrapping his arms around Crowley’s waist and pulling him down until they were laying together on the bed. 

“I had to. He would’ve killed Annie.”

“I know. I’m… I’m glad. But doesn’t that mean—”

“Michael will come. And Beelzebub. Yes.” Crowley let out a heavy sigh and shuffled around until he had his legs tangled in the angel’s and his face was hidden by his neck where his tears couldn’t be seen. Aziraphale draped a wing over him like a blanket and it felt so consoling to be caged by those thick, glossy feathers. “It’s my fault, Angel.”

“Don’t say that! It’s no one’s _fault._ Is… Is that why you’re upset?”

“I’m upset because I just _killed_ someone! And his mother is going to come here and rip _your_ wings off for it. Or finish ripping off Annie’s! What are we going to do then?” Crowley asked, his voice breaking into an unflattering whine. He felt as if he’d lost all control of himself, but the thought of turning serpent to shield himself seemed impossible with how badly his serpentine muscles were aching.

“You’ll...you’ll protect us. Won’t you?”

“Of course! But… But then what? I kill Michael—then Beelzebub. Then Hastur? Then the rest of Hell? It’s not going to play out like that, Angel. Eventually, I’m going to lose. Eventually, they’ll get you alone. We need Holy Water.”

“Enough with the Holy Water,” Aziraphale muttered, nuzzling down against Crowley. The tips of so many gentle feathers brushed across his cheek a moment later and Crowley practically melted into their touch. “It would destroy you, Crowley. I can’t even stand to imagine it. I saw what it does to demons. You know that!”

“I won’t go splashing around in it. I need to keep you safe. It’s my fault we’re in this mess—”

“It’s not your fault! Stop saying so!”

“You’d rather I live in denial? Pretend like I don’t know why these demons are hunting our daughter? If we have another baby, they’ll try to kill it too. We _can’t_ have any more. It’s over.”

“Over?” Aziraphale asked, pulling away slightly. 

Crowley clenched his teeth and held Aziraphale a little tighter to make up for the distance the angel had made.

“Stop being ridiculous,” Aziraphale said, relaxing once he seemed to realize Crowley wasn’t going anywhere. “We’ll put this little discussion about hatchlings and babies on standby for now and...and focus on Annie. She needs us now, more than ever. And we need to come up with a story about what happened with Wrath.”

So, slowly, they worked through their story while Crowley coaxed Aziraphale into letting him groom his wings. He buried his face into them as he did, staining the white feathers red with his tears. He ruined everything he touched.

( ) ( ) ( )

Aziraphale had been unable to get Crowley to come out of his shell since the incident with Wrath. He dared say Annie recovered from the attack before her father. Crowley stayed in his human body, but seldom spoke to Aziraphale—spending most of his energy on making sure Annie was occupied and happy. The two disappeared in her car for a couple days, leaving Aziraphale to himself—worried the whole time about vengeful demons coming to get him. 

They returned with pastries for him—as if pastries made up for forty-eight hours of straight anxiety and terror—and only Annie had given him a hug. Crowley kept to himself, as if he thought the slightest touch would result in “hatchlings.”

The whole business of having more children had become repulsive to him. He felt, deep down, that if he hadn’t gotten his hopes up and mentioned it, Crowley would be on speaking terms with him. He wondered what he had done to upset him so much after the incident with Wrath. They had laid in bed together for at least a day or two, just holding each other. Crowley had tended to all of Aziraphale’s feathers diligently, simultaneously crying into them—regrettably—without acknowledging it. Before they left the bedroom, Aziraphale had miracled away all of the dried blood that stuck his white feathers together in places and looked no worse for wear. 

But it was after that when Crowley ceased talking to him.

He tried to keep hidden how devastated he was, hoping to protect Crowley from the added pain. It was obvious the demon had a lot on his mind, a lot he was struggling to process, but Aziraphale wished he didn’t have to endure it all alone. They were supposed to be partners, husbands, a _team._ They were supposed to conquer these things together, stumble through life _together._

Certainly, they were supposed to broach the subject of having children together, too. Aziraphale began to have no doubts that it was the hatchlings that had his partner so distant from him. Crowley had, after all, been so angry when Aziraphale had proposed it—and for good reason, Aziraphale saw now. When Crowley had asked for more, practically _begged,_ saying he needed more, offering to carry the baby even, Aziraphale told him it was unwise to let him dream of it. Then acted as if that conversation had never happened, behaved as if it were his own marvelous idea when he asked the demon himself. 

Crowley had to have felt so awful the times Aziraphale turned him down. It was so unlike him to ask for anything, let alone plead, and yet he’d worked up the courage to propose it several times just to be shot through the heart. 

Whether or not Crowley had started avoiding him out of anger or pain, Aziraphale didn’t know, but the angel began avoiding him out of shame.

It became a horrid routine, an intricate dance, avoiding one another in the bookshop. Crowley didn’t make eye contact with him, and Aziraphale stopped trying to strike up conversation with him anymore. Annie quit trying to force them together and for six months they behaved as virtual strangers sharing a roof. 

Sometimes Aziraphale laid in bed alone, other times it was Crowley occupying the space. Crowley let his wings grow faded and gray, and Aziraphale had pulled out clumps of his own feathers over the weeks. His left wing was thinned to where it had been before he’d been gifted the extra layers and though he was terrified of what Crowley might say if he saw, he couldn’t bring himself to stop plucking either. 

Around that six month marker was when Annie began going out at night again. The first time she did it, Crowley had paced the bookshop up and down for hours until she came home with bruised lips and pink cheeks—looking quite pleased with herself. 

“It’s called passion, Dada. You should try it sometimes,” she’d said when Crowley asked where she’d been. Why he asked, Aziraphale couldn’t fathom. It was obvious. It was so obvious, and yet Crowley had practically _wept_ over it. There were no tears on his cheeks, but it was evident in his posture and sunken demeanor that he was wounded. She didn’t need him or want him hovering over her shoulder, ensuring her safety.

She rediscovered her confidence and fled more and more, being gone several nights at a time—up to a week with only brief text messages to her father to let him know she was alright. Her absence did cause Crowley to sit a little closer to Aziraphale, though he didn’t speak on it. 

It was on such a night that they were both sitting in their respective chairs together. Crowley had accepted a cup of tea and was holding it in his hands more so than drinking it. It was wintertime and he used the cup to keep warm, Aziraphale was certain. He looked sad, pensive, and scarcely moved as the curls of steam rose from the blue cup. 

“Is everything alright, my love?” Aziraphale asked.

“Ngk,” served as Crowley’s answer.

“Annie did look lovely tonight.”

“Hn.”

“Are your shoes new?” They were not.

“No. Shined ‘em yesterday. Or was it...last week.” Crowley let out a sigh and finally took a drink of tea. “What do you want, Angel?”

“Just to talk. You’ve been a stranger,” Aziraphale offered, trying to sound friendly and casual.

“Tired, Angel. My body’s been hurting since that night. I pulled so many muscles.”

“Perhaps I could be of some help. I… I could massage you.”

Crowley didn’t answer and Aziraphale knew it was a lost cause. 

“Angel… I want to move.”

“You… You want to move out?” Aziraphale asked, feeling like he’d been shot in the chest. He felt tears in his eyes and rubbed his face quickly to disguise them. He couldn’t believe a simple phrase could effect him so much.

“Move out?” Crowley echoed.

“You want to move out, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, his voice shaking—betraying his pain. What was the use hiding it, really. The demon had to know how much it hurt him.

“Of the bookshop,” Crowley said, finally turning to look at him. “I want us to move away. Someplace quieter. No more...customers wandering in. No more Soho. No more...bad memories. I want to go away with you.”

Aziraphale waited for the words to comfort him, but somehow they just left him feeling raw and hollow.

“You could have fooled me. You’ve hardly said a word to me in months.”

“I could go… I probably should go. I should be the one to move out.” He didn’t move from his seat. “I ruin everything I touch, Angel. I’m a demon. I don’t know why I thought I had any right to be here in your space.”

It was as if a door, boarded shut and bricked off, had been cracked open. A pool of inky black tar spilling out—Crowley’s pain and loneliness. Did he really feel that way? Like he had somehow ruined things just by being close? He was a demon, yes, and he’d done his fair share of nasty, inconvenient deeds, but he was not like the others. He didn’t even deserve that title. “Demon.” Aziraphale wanted to say these things, wanted to strike at him until he saw things properly, but it was a struggle to even remember what language they were speaking as the words sunk into him.

“Where is this coming from? My dear, I love you! You haven’t ruined anything, but you’re breaking my heart. All I ever wanted was to be with you—scales and all. What could you possibly have ruined?”

“You could’ve had Annie with anyone else… It shouldn’t have had to be me.”

It felt as if his entire universe had shattered around him. How long had Crowley been in _this_ spiral? How long had he been wandering in the darkness by himself to have come up with such an idea, let alone believe it enough to speak it aloud?

“Annie is… Annie is so much like you. She’s all the best parts of you. I love that about her! I wouldn’t have wanted her with anyone else. You… You’re the one I wanted, Crowley. You have to know that. Please, my dear, stop this foolishness. You’re breaking my heart, my love. I do still _love_ you, Crowley… You know that. Yes?”

“Oh… Yes, of course,” Crowley said, crossing his legs and setting his tea aside. 

“You don’t believe me...” 

“You can’t love me, Angel. It’s not...not proper for an angel.”

“You’re right,” Aziraphale said, turning away from him, trying to hide the amount of pain welling up in his chest. Did Crowley really believe these awful things he was saying so carelessly? “It’s not proper. Nor was it proper for a demon to slither up onto the wall in Eden and exchange pleasantries with an angel. Oh, I knew who you were. I knew what you’d done… It was your fault entirely that Adam and Eve were cast out. And you know what else?”

“I really don’t know, Angel,” Crowley said, staring forlornly at the ground instead of looking at Aziraphale. 

“I put my wing over your head when it started raining. I shielded you for the first time from the consequences of what you’d done and it’s a wonder the Almighty didn’t strike me down in an instant that day. An angel protecting a demon… I wondered for a very long time why She never caused me to Fall for helping you, going along with your schemes. It’s because I _love_ you, sincerely _love_ you and have from that very day on the wall. I love you, and no one can blame me or smite me or punish me for that. Not even God. In fact… I’m not entirely convinced She didn’t cast you down simply so that we might...be as we are. Together. Certainly two angels would be too caught up in being proper to tempt one another to thwart the Great Plan or—or raise a child together on Earth.”

Crowley sat in his throne silently, still staring at the ground though also running his hand over the top of his head as if feeling for dampness from the rainstorm. 

“Do you really think the Lord made me Fall...burnt my wings black, burnt my eyes out and left me with these, just so we could meet in Eden and fall in love? That’s more like...some bedtime story than anything you sell in this shop.”

“Is it so unlikely? Adam and Eve… They fell in love there.”

“They were the only two there. There were other angels.”

“And I doubt they paid you a single glance.”

“Not true… One spat on me,” Crowley said, sounding a little more like himself. 

“See? There we are. I was the only angel willing to see past the demon and see the person inside. And what a kind, caring person he is,” Aziraphale said, feeling the smallest bit pleased with himself as Crowley did not come back with a smart reply.

Instead, they sat quietly a moment—long enough for Aziraphale to finish his tea—and then Crowley seemed to collect himself enough to speak.

“Angel… I really think I need to leave this place. You can come with me...if you’d like. Bring the books and the plants and Annie. I just want to leave. I feel like...we’re being watched. Like I’m being spied on day in and day out. I need to go where they don’t expect to find me.”

“By they you mean…”

“Michael and Beelzebub. We need to leave. Or… Or I do. You don’t, Angel. I don’t care to drag you into my mess.” He was fidgeting so much and Aziraphale could feel the nervous energy coming off him in waves.

“Our mess,” Aziraphale corrected. “We can leave. I wouldn’t mind ending this pretense anyway,” he said, looking around with a fair bit of fondness at his shop. It would be sad to see it go. He’d spent centuries here… But he could do without coming downstairs some mornings and looking at the carpet onto which Crowley had crashed all those decades ago in a bloody, screaming mess—his wing torn off his back. “We could probably get a little cottage somewhere. A nice two bedroom place, for certain.”

“Only two?” Crowley asked, then shook his head. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

“How many did you suppose? Not just one?” Aziraphale asked. They would be taking Annie. Wherever they went, she had to come. 

“I was thinking at least three or four, but...but two is fine. It can’t be one bedroom. Where would Annie do her yoga and take boys when she pretends to be asleep?” He grabbed for his tea again and Aziraphale noticed an alarming streak of blood running down from his sunglasses. 

“My dear…” Aziraphale wanted to ask so badly why he was crying now and not before when their conversation had been much heavier. Wanted to know, to understand, but all he could do was stare at his husband and sigh. 

“Two bedrooms is fine,” Crowley said, somewhat forcefully. “I don’t need to be going around having any more offspring. Lot of good it did for the one I had. Got her beaten to a pulp and bitten by a jackal. Worthless, demon of a father.” 

“Crowley, enough! I’ve had enough of this!” _Again!_ Again with the hatchlings! Aziraphale resented himself for ever having brought it up after his discussion with Sandalphon. There would be no peace for them until they had another, Aziraphale realized now, and Crowley didn’t seem capable of ever letting them. “You’re unendurable! Annie _loves_ you. _I_ love you! Nothing you’ve ever done has been a source of—of disappointment or shame for either of us! You’re a far better parent than you even dare to give yourself credit for. Annie would be beside herself if she heard you talking this way. How could you ever think of yourself as worthless after all the things you’ve done for both of us?”

“I let her get hurt, Angel. I let her—”

“Annie knew the risk when she went to that dinner. She made her choice. You couldn’t have stopped her and nor could I! Stop this! If you truly don’t want any more children with me, that’s fine. I won’t push. I am just as happy with or without. But I cannot take you speaking this way another moment!”

“You can’t take hearing the truth when it’s ugly! That’s the very worst part of you, Angel!”

“Enough! I won’t have it!” Aziraphale shouted. His demon stared at him from behind those irritating sunglasses, hiding whatever pain or fear or shame he was feeling except for the long tears of blood he was trying desperately to ignore. 

Crowley was staring at him, silently now, taking in shallow, shaking breaths he didn’t need. What would he say now, Aziraphale wondered. What dark shadow would he cast over himself? What insult would he direct at himself? What would he say to keep his demonic heart broken and shattered despite all of Aziraphale’s efforts to keep it whole?

“You know, Angel,” Crowley said, pausing to clear his throat, “I do think I could get into you raising your voice at me like that. ‘S different. Electrifying,” he over-pronounced the word as he summoned himself a glass of wine he definitely, absolutely did not need. 

“Be quiet, awful serpent,” Aziraphale grumbled, going back to his tea and trying to calm himself down. 

“Is that an order, or—” Crowley was cut off by a loud pounding on the door of the shop. His tongue poked out, long and forked and tasting the air as he set his wineglass aside. “Don’t move, Angel… That’s a demon.” 

That, to Aziraphale, was the perfect reason to move. He stood at the same time as Crowley and made a valiant effort to beat him to the door. 

“This is why I told you to get Holy Water,” Crowley seethed, pulling back the blinds over the window to reveal an unassuming blond woman holding a little collection of books in her arms. To Aziraphale it would’ve looked like a typical collector—hoping to trade or sell. Trusting Crowley’s tongue, however, Aziraphale realized quite quickly that this was a demon...Michael. 

“Move,” Aziraphale said, pushing Crowley aside and opening the door. “We are closed, madam. Please do try again some other time,” he said, biding for time while he tried to think of an action plan. 

“Oh—You are? How splendid. That is what I’d hoped you say.” The face was different, but the voice was most definitely Michael’s. Aziraphale would recognize it anywhere.


	7. Chapter 7

Crowley wasn’t exactly certain that he could hyperventilate, especially given the fact that he didn’t need to breathe. However, in that moment, he was absolutely struggling to take breaths he didn’t need—his vision was wrought with crackles and static, and he if he had a pulse it would surely be pounding in his ears. 

All he could think was “Holy Water,” “Holy Water” over and over and over again. Because it was, in fact, the purest of Holy Waters that had spattered mere millimeters from his hands, the tiniest fraction of atoms away from his cheeks. 

It shined on Aziraphale’s face like sweat and dripped down his neck—making him absolutely untouchable by Crowley or any demon. Annie stood a meter or so back, her chest heaving as she clutched a steel water bottle in her hands. The lid was lost somewhere on the floor, near the puddle of what had once been a demon called Michael. 

The bottle, Crowley realized as he tried so desperately to calm himself down, was one had had purchased for her. He’d taken her to Greece to see the Ruins and she found the bottle at a street-side vendor. She just had to have it—it had little Greek drawings on it of ancient Gods. 

“Please, Dada! Please, please!” She had cried, over and over while smiling at him brightly because she knew he couldn’t say no to her. 

How long had she been keeping that water bottle full of Holy Water? And why? Didn’t she know it could kill him?

“Are you alright? Dada, are you alright?” Annie was asking him, her voice sounding farther and farther away the harder Crowley struggled to breathe.

“Did you get any on you, my darling?” Aziraphale asked, staying back several paces because he was wet with the divine liquid and knew it.

“Is he dying? Oh, God… I killed him!” Annie screamed.

“No—Annie, no! He’s… He’s not dying. I think… My dear, are you alright? I think he’s in shock.”

No one could touch him, he realized, because of the Holy Water. Annie had it on her hands, Aziraphale on his face and neck and chest. 

Michael got the best of it though… Oh, yes. Almost worse than Ligur. 

She had come into the shop with purpose, shoving Aziraphale backwards and dropping the books she had brought onto the ground. Aziraphale pretended to be naive and care about them and Crowley had—he really, really _had_ —intended to turn serpent and catch the demon off guard the way he had with her son. 

But he had frozen. He had hesitated. 

When he moved to transform, he was reminded of how badly his serpent form ached—how sore the muscles were—and somehow, some way, that soreness made him remember his torture. He remembered Falling for an eternity, scratching at himself and at walls he couldn’t see as he plummeted further and further down.

Michael lashed out at Aziraphale then, striking him across the face with her claws out—cutting his flesh and sending a little spray of blood outward that caught the corner of Crowley’s mouth. While Aziraphale was clutching at his face, Michael struck at him again—managing to catch him off guard enough to almost topple him to the floor. 

Crowley could taste blood, Aziraphale’s blood, and it sent his mind splintering between the entryway of the bookshop and the white torture chamber he’d faced in Heaven. He could practically feel the whips upon him. He could practically _feel_ his skin sizzling and burning under the Holy flames. 

When Michael locked eyes on him, smiling and showing what had to be a thousand razor-blade teeth, Crowley flinched like a wounded animal. He backed away from her, thinking of his wings—thinking of what it would feel like having them shattered, having both of them ripped off. He could feel it happening. 

He felt his bones snapping and his skin tearing, that awful and brutal pressure in the center of his back as the joint of his wing popped and crunched.

Then Aziraphale called to him—and Crowley realized Michael was standing in front of him now.

“I’m going to ask you this once. Where is my son?” Michael hissed. She had a blade to his neck, Crowley realized. It would discorporate him if she willed it and there was no way in Heaven or Hell he would get his body back. 

“I crushed him,” Crowley breathed, backing away the smallest fraction of a centimeter. “And then I swallowed him whole.”

Michael's face twisted into a horrific snarl, all teeth and sharp angles. She stabbed him—but not in the neck. She didn’t want to kill him yet. Crowley felt the knife like a punch and, unfortunately for Michael, it grounded him in _this_ reality, not the horror of his past. 

When she stabbed him, it spurred Aziraphale back into action. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and jerked her backwards, trying to put a space between her and Crowley. It caused her to withdraw the blade from his shoulder with an agonizing twist, but she made certain not to drop it. 

Crowley didn’t get the chance to turn fully serpent, but his teeth had grown to fangs and his skin was coated in a thick, glossy layer of black scales. He shook his head until his sunglasses were out of the way, making everything bright and vivid as he honed in on Michael’s throat. He didn’t need to be serpent to crush her. In fact, he’d thought, he would take great pleasure in doing it in the body of a man—the way she had happily tortured him in the body of a woman. 

Every time he tried to lunge for her, though, she would slash her knife at his face. It caught him across the left cheek twice despite Aziraphale’s attempts to hold her, then the blade found itself embedded in Aziraphale’s thigh—slicing through the cream-colored fabric of his trousers. 

When he screamed, Crowley had half the thought to wonder if it was in mourning over his ruined pants.

“Papa!” Annie had called out then, alerting all of them to her presence. “Don’t hurt them! Please! Michael, please, don’t hurt them!”

“Annie! Get out of here, now!” Aziraphale had shouted, his voice sounding so unlike his own that even Crowley froze for a moment. It was deeper, more forceful, as his wings manifested and glowed like the sun. 

It hurt Crowley to look at them, but Michael was rendered momentarily blind. She clawed at her eyes, dropping the knife as she did, and turned away to shield her face—perhaps thinking his Holy Grace was about to burn through her entire body. 

This momentary distraction gave Crowley an opportunity to lunge for her. He tackled her, getting her to the ground and sinking his fangs deep into whatever part of her he could manage. She clawed at him and shrieked, slicing into his scales and flesh with her long and deadly talons, and he hissed at her in return—leaking venom into her open cuts and tearing off chunks of meat from her bones. Somewhere behind him, Aziraphale was pounding his wings—striking Michael over the head with his feathers (lot of good that did, but without his flaming sword, Crowley guessed Aziraphale wasn’t much of a warrior). It kept her incapacitated for a while until she threw herself backwards, cracking her own head into the floorboards and simultaneously jerking her wrist free of Crowley’s blood-filled mouth.

It was in that exact moment Annie thundered down the stairs and her arrival was magnified by the slap of water against the floor—against Michael, against Aziraphale, and very nearly against her demon father who had but a quarter of a millisecond to jerk backwards and avoid being splattered as well.

Michael howled, her face starting to melt—one of her eyes oozing out of its socket and slipping down her neck. Her razor-blade teeth followed suit until her whole head had sunken in. Aziraphale had shook his face to get the water off, then froze as he realized what was happening and stared at Crowley who was scrambling further backward—taking out a decorative table and a display of succulents as he did. 

He was expecting the agonizing burn, the horror of Holy Fire coursing through his veins and dissolving him. He expected it so much, he started to feel it burning up his legs and into his throat. He screamed, a devil’s wail of shock and pain, until the back of his head struck a bookshelf that rained six heavy volumes down onto his head and his right hand. 

His eyes were fixed on Michael who was no longer making any noise at all. Her arms had become part of the shapeless goo that was her torso—then her legs pooled around her finally there was nothing left but a steaming puddle of acidic colors all swirling together on the floorboards. 

Aziraphale had backed away from it, perhaps in fear that if it got on his shoes it would start to eat through him as well. 

Crowley remained frozen against the bookshelf, suffocating and spasming as he tried to figure out if he was dying or not. 

“Annie, stay with him. I-I need to go dry off. I need to change! I—ow!” Aziraphale moved to go upstairs and almost collapsed as if he just realized his leg had been stabbed. “Annie—go wash your hands. Set that there, I’ll take care of it. Wash your hands and go help him. Change out of those clothes for good measure. It’s going to be alright, Crowley!” 

So much was happening—so much noise and hysteria. Crowley felt his body start shivering and he became convinced that if he didn’t move, that puddle of former demon would start seeping closer to him and dissolve him like acid. 

He crawled along the shelf, then found his legs and stood in order to move faster. He stumbled and tripped, but managed somehow to stay upright until he collapsed at the foot of the stairs, several paces away from Aziraphale who was still wet with Holy Water.

“My darling, be careful!” Aziraphale warned. “I can’t touch you right now. Don’t… Don’t get any closer.”

“Are you hurt?” Crowley wheezed. It was a stupid question. Of course he was! He was _bleeding_ and his trousers were ruined. 

“I’ll be fine, my darling,” Aziraphale panted. “Oh, Crowley… I thought she killed you. I thought Annie killed you.” He let out a sob and Crowley was overcome with longing to touch him. Surely if he was careful he wouldn’t touch anywhere that had been splashed. 

But what was sweat, what was tears, and what was Holy Water?

He didn’t have long to dwell on it, for Annie was scampering down the stairs and wrapping him in her arms. She was crying harder than her Papa, and squeezed him tight enough to put his Serpent of Eden to shame. 

“I’ll be back momentarily, my dear,” Aziraphale said, limping up the stairs and leaving drops of blood in his wake. 

Crowley wanted to follow him, but all he could do was hold Annie who was sobbing apologies into his chest.

“I’m so sorry, Dada. I panicked. She had ahold of Papa’s wing and I thought about what they’d done to your wings and...I panicked. I threw it. I almost hurt you. I almost did _that_ to you!” She said, gesturing toward the puddle that had once been a demon. 

He hadn’t realized that Aziraphale’s fluttering wings might’ve been because he’d gotten one snagged on Michael’s talons. 

“I’m… I’m alright,” Crowley wheezed, burying his face in her red curls. His body was shaking nearly as hard as hers. 

They stayed that way for some time before Aziraphale returned, dressed in new clothes with the wound on his leg healed and no longer seeping. His face still had traces of soap on it from where he’d washed it, ensuring that all of the Holy Water was scrubbed away. The first thing Crowley did when Annie let him go was press a kiss onto his angel’s mouth—it was sorrowful and needy and full of pain, but Aziraphale returned it tenfold, holding both sides of Crowley’s face as he did. 

A healing warmth spread through the slashes on his cheek and Crowley pressed harder into the kiss, closing his eyes as he felt Aziraphale melt against him. He parted his lips, perhaps to speak or sigh or moan, only to feel the very tip of Aziraphale’s tongue slide along his bottom teeth. When Crowley went to reciprocate, he found Aziraphale jerking away as if burnt, covering his lips with his hand.

His tongue, Crowley realized with a jolt, was still unnaturally thin and forked at the end—no doubt contributing to Aziraphale’s shock. That and perhaps the way their daughter was staring at them, red faced more so than just the smearing of her bloody tears. 

“I was so worried,” Aziraphale said, breaking the awkward silence between all three of them. “I felt that water and...I thought I lost you.”

“I’m so sorry, Papa,” Annie whispered.

The next thing Crowley knew, they were both hugging him and he was still on the floor. Aziraphale’s wings came out to encircle them and Crowley was fast to run his fingers through them, realizing suddenly that one was much smaller than the other. Aziraphale’s awful habit of plucking had manifested into mutilation.

“Is this because of me?” Crowley asked, running his fingers over the solitary layer of feathers. He wanted to cry, realizing without Aziraphale needing to tell him that it was his fault. 

“It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters now,” Aziraphale was mumbling, pulling Crowley to his chest and kissing the top of his head. “Only that you’re safe. We’re all safe.”

“I hesitated,” Crowley said quietly, touching Aziraphale’s feathers and sighing. “I saw Michael and seized up like a fool.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Aziraphale said gently. 

It felt an awful lot like forgiveness, sitting in Aziraphale’s embrace with his daughter’s head on his shoulder—her arms around his waist. He had frozen, let Michael get the upper hand, and they were holding him with love. He hadn’t been able to stop Michael, his daughter had had to do it for him, and yet they were both clinging to him as if for dear life. He felt so warm, so safe—safe, safe, safe.

( ) ( ) ( )

Aziraphale huffed in exhaustion, collapsing on the mattress Crowley had just finished setting up. Moving had sounded like such a good idea—especially since the demon now refused to go in or out the front door of the bookshop—but the reality of it was just a ton of work. He was sweaty and feeling gross, his clothes sticking to him uncomfortably. 

“Are you okay, Angel?” Crowley asked, carrying a box of clothing into their new bedroom and setting it down beside the open window. 

They had moved to South Downs, into a rather large cottage by the water. There were four bedrooms, as opposed to the other one they’d looked at which had three, and Crowley had seemed so excited when Aziraphale said he’d rather have the fourth bedroom in case of unexpected hatchlings. 

With Michael mopped up and dumped in the rubbish bin, Crowley seemed more at ease—especially after Aziraphale assured him he would be happy to move from the shop as soon as possible. Annie didn’t protest to the change of scenery and had, off and on, disappeared from the rooms she was meant to be unpacking in order to cat call and wolf whistle at all the men she could find. 

“I am utterly exhausted!” Aziraphale said, sprawling out on the bed.

“We could call it quits for the day. All the boxes are inside. Annie’s run off again… Let’s take a break, yeah? We can take a shower together.”

“That does sound _delightful,”_ Aziraphale said, sitting up. His hands flew to the buttons of his shirt, eager to strip it off and have one less layer setting him ablaze. 

“I’ll...meet you there,” Crowley said, one eyebrow shooting up before he stepped into their attached bathroom. 

Aziraphale stripped off his shirt and followed Crowley to the bathroom where his demon already had their new triple-tiered, off-white shower curtain drawn. It was positively decadent and Aziraphale felt his heart swell at the sight of it. Crowley had wanted red, but the cream was just so much more Aziraphale’s style. 

“Did you get my conditioner unpacked?” Crowley asked without turning around. 

“Oh… Um, yes, of course,” Aziraphale said, miracling the box open and into his hands. There was no doubt that Crowley noticed, but he didn’t comment, just kept adjusting the water while the bathroom filled with steam. 

He handed the bottles one at a time to Crowley who lined them up along the edge of the tub or wherever he could find space, complaining that he didn’t feel like finding the shower rack they’d bought the week before. 

“You get in first. I want to make sure the door is locked before—”

Aziraphale passed him a deadpan expression while miracling the front and side doors locked. 

“Or I can just...strip in front of you, if you’d rather have that. Alright then,” Crowley said, fidgeting before taking off his shirt and sunglasses. “I’m not giving you a dance though. You’re not that charming.”

Aziraphale wanted to say something witty, but he was rendered speechless as soon as Crowley’s hands landed on his snake-shaped belt. 

“Well, I’ll get in then! Don’t want to waste the water,” he said, finally finding his tongue. He stepped into the shower with his trousers still on and had to miracle them folded and dried onto the bed in the next room. It wasn’t that they hadn’t seen each other unclothed before, but never had it been in such close quarters or with intent. It had always been...a sort of happy accident that they ended up in the same hot spring or bath house. 

At least, he thought it was accidental. 

Regardless, Aziraphale was practically hunched over with his back to the shower head when Crowley parted the curtain with a chilly gust of air and stepped in behind him. He’d never actually showered with anyone before and suddenly felt very self-conscious and small—and large—all at the same time. Perhaps he shouldn’t have eaten quite so much sushi and pastries in his lifetime. Crowley abstained and he was all lean and limber and—oh! Oh, his arms were snaked around Aziraphale’s waist.

“Is it too hot for you?” Crowley asked, practically purred against his ear. 

“No?—No! Not at all. I forgot, you do prefer it to be quite hot.”

“You’re quite hot, Angel,” Crowley purred. Yes, definitely purring.

“Maybe… Not at this exact moment,” Aziraphale mustered. They had moved out here with the intent of maybe, possibly having hatchlings, but now that the moment was upon him, Aziraphale was left feeling so awkward and shy. 

“No?” Crowley asked, his voice sounding the slightest bit playful as he slid his hands up and down the angel’s hips. 

“Well…” Aziraphale thought for a moment, really trying to push down the nervousness for Crowley’s sake. Still, the embarrassment remained, filling him with butterflies and anxieties he never had to face before. What if he wasn’t what Crowley wanted to look at when he— What if this was all some trick by Sandalphon and the Heavens and they couldn’t actually create— What if Annie came home and overheard them—

“I want to paint the kitchen gray.”

“Orange! We decided on dandelion orange!” Aziraphale snapped, drawn forcefully out of his winding thoughts and worries.

“Who named it that? ‘Dandelion Orange’? Dandelions are yellow,” the serpent whispered in his ear, hugging him around the waist again. “I’m okay with this, Angel,” he added in a whisper. “This has always been enough for me. Always will be. You know that, yes?”

“I know,” Aziraphale said with a heavy sigh. “But you want… _I_ want...”

“Hatchlingsss,” Crowley hissed affectionately, nuzzling Aziraphale’s neck. “But it doesn’t have to be right now. Doesn’t have to be this century. I’m happy just to be here with you, Angel. My angel,” he added in a gentle coo that had Aziraphale practically melting. 

It _was_ rather hot in here, come to think of it.

“Perhaps once the house is more settled,” Aziraphale offered, somehow still feeling that saying no now meant saying no forever. 

“Yesss. And after you agree to paint the nursery black,” Crowley taunted.

“Never. Out of the question! Black for a baby’s room!”

“Or red.”

“Why not blue? Or pink? Or anything not from a Gothic nightmare?” Aziraphale asked, squirming out of Crowley’s playful arms in order to grab his bar of soap. He felt his cheeks heating up when he realized slit pupils were looking him up and down. He wondered if he ought to have gone through the trouble to make the, er, rest of him appear male. It wasn’t something he often thought about… Oh, Heaven, he really was a lost cause for this whole hatchling business. “What?” He found himself asking, almost too harshly. 

“Your legs are quite short,” Crowley said, and then effectively blocked the entire stream of water with his face, wetting it and rubbing at his eyes and scrubbing at his hair. 

“Well your...your knees are...knobby!” Aziraphale attempted. It just served to make the demon chuckle at him. They washed themselves in near silence after that, up until Aziraphale went to rinse the shampoo from his short hair. He’d closed his eyes for just a moment to tip his head back into the stream of water only to have Crowley’s arms around him again—then a hand massaging his scalp, then two. It sent little shivers up and down his spine and, for a brief and almost frightening moment, his wings almost manifested of their own accord from the pleasure. What a mess that would’ve made...though the trickle of water through his feathers might feel absolutely delightful after all the heavy lifting he’d been doing.

As if reading his mind, Crowley nuzzled against his clean and sopping wet hair to whisper, “Can I take my wings out?”

“If you think there’s enough room. It’s quite cramped,” Aziraphale warned. 

“If I do, will you touch them?” Crowley asked, his voice almost exactly that of his serpent form. That was definitely an attempt at temptation.

“We’re going to run out of hot water,” Aziraphale said, finding himself pressing back against Crowley’s chest.

“No… Do you not want me to?” 

“I’ll—I’ll touch them. It’s alright. We’ll make room,” Aziraphale found himself babbling. Moments later, he had Crowley’s black feathers sticking to his hands and a very needy demon sinking onto the shower floor in front of him, offering up his wings and letting out soft little noises that were almost muted by the rush of water. 

Aziraphale almost didn’t realize at first that Crowley had gotten down onto his elbows and knees so his wings could stand straight up from his back. Almost didn’t realize that he had started sinking down behind him in order to run his hands along the base of the bones where they met Crowley’s shoulders. He might not have really thought about it all if not for the way Crowley suddenly turned to look at him—eyes somehow longing, somehow sad.

“You can have me, Angel. If you want to… It can be like this. It doesn’t have to be for hatchlings. It can… It can just be us. I’d like that—if you wanted it. I think I’d like to try it with you. If you hate it, we can stop. Promise. We don’t have to… Just a thought. I’m okay with this.”

“Oh, do be quiet,” Aziraphale said, closing his eyes as he manifested a little something extra. “Just don’t let me hurt you.”

The sound Crowley let out was absolute sin. His arms stretched out until his hands were pressing against the tub near the drain, his back dipping lower as his wings blocked the flow of water from striking Aziraphale in the face as the angel tried to ready himself without thinking about what he was preparing to do.

It was sin—but it was permitted, he reminded himself. It was the will of the Almighty.

But the Almighty wanted them to make offspring… Surely they couldn’t with Crowley presenting as absolutely, most definitely male. Did that make it a sin still? Was it still alright in the eyes of the Almighty? Oh, how Aziraphale really hoped the Almighty wasn’t watching this particular scene. Surely She had more to worry about.

“We don’t have to,” Crowley repeated, his voice mostly a harsh panting as Aziraphale ran a hand up the shaft of his wing. “If—If you’d rather not.”

“I thought I told you to be quiet.”

( ) ( ) ( )

Antigone knew the moment she got home that something had gone awry. Or perhaps awry wasn’t exactly the right word for it. The first thing she smelled the instant she closed the door (which her fathers had rudely locked against her) was pheromones. The scent was so thick she practically choked on it. The air was also extremely humid, extending from the curls of steam seeping out from under the door of her fathers’ closed bedroom door. 

She tiptoed into her messily unpacked bedroom and shut the door, trying not to listen to the muffled voices on the other side of the wall. There was laughing—and her serpent father’s well-humored voice mumbling on and on about something until her angel father let out a loud exclamation followed by the crashing of something into what had to be the bath tub. 

The two of them started laughing like school children and Annie knew immediately where the pheromone smell had come from. 

The voices continued on for two days. They didn’t leave their bedroom for two days. Not even for tea! 

They just talked to each other—laughed with each other. Annie found herself tuning in and out to the stories her Dada would tell while she stared out at the coastline. Some she had heard before, others were new. Stories of her Dada’s evil deeds as the Black Knight, stories about her Papa trying to bless people and performing miracles with disastrous consequences. He really was no good at being an angel.

When her fathers finally left their bedroom, they looked startled to see her—as if they’d forgotten that they weren’t the only two beings in the world. She smiled at them, pleased they could forget about her for a moment. It meant that when she tried to flee the nest—whenever that may be—it wouldn’t be met with as much resistance as she’d always feared. 

They all went downstairs together and her Papa made tea and breakfast even though it was four in the afternoon. Her Dada drank black coffee instead and poked at the eggs he was presented, but his lips remained twisted upward in a minuscule smile the whole time. Her Papa sat closer to him, every now and then putting a hand on his shoulder or his knee. 

“We’re thinking lavender for the nursery,” her Papa said quite suddenly, making Annie wonder if she had somehow tuned out a very important part of the conversation.

“Lavender? Are you having a girl?” She asked, caught off guard. Her fathers stared at her as if she’d grown an extra head.

“We’re not having anything yet,” her Papa said, looking to her serpent father, for some reason, as if for reassurance.

“I told you; it’s too feminine. Yellow.”

“Yellow makes infants cry,” her Papa argued.

“Lavender is too feminine; she agrees.”

“But I _like_ lavender! I’m not—oh, I’m not arguing with you. If you had your way, it would be black. Can you believe it, Annie? A _black_ nursery!”

“I wouldn’t really paint it black,” her Dada said, sipping his coffee. “Lavender is fine. The right shade and it’s somewhere between purple and blue. It’s perfect, Angel.”

“You really don’t stand your ground when it comes to Papa, do you?” Annie asked, smirking at the demon who was really terrible at honoring his species. 

“What do you mean by that?” Her Dada asked.

“Oh, nothing. Nothing at all. Just...you know. ‘Lavender is too feminine,’ you say. Then ‘Lavender is fine, perfectly fine, Love.’ You’re adorable.”

“I am a demon!” Her Dada hissed, looking anything but menacing. 

“What color are the curtains going to be in your nursery, oh great demon?” Annie asked, taking a bite of toast.

“Ivory,” her Papa said.

“Green,” her Dada said in the same instant. 

They glowered at each other. Yes, Annie was starting to see why she’d been sent by the Lord in a wicker basket.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's getting weird, y'all. I don't know why this is the route my brain wants to go, but it's where we're going. Buckle up--next stop, baby-ville!

Crowley was lounging on the couch, his head in Aziraphale’s lap while the angel read a book aloud. Annie was sitting across from them in her Papa’s chair, reading something on her tablet quietly to herself. Every now and then, Crowley found himself reaching up to touch Aziraphale’s face or trace the outline of the book obnoxiously, just to get those piercing blue eyes to pay attention to him a moment. He didn’t really need the reassurance that he was on the angel’s mind, but it was endlessly amusing to see which expression would be on his lover’s face when he glanced down. 

Crowley would’ve dared to call it one of their few picture perfect moments, if not for the fact that his stomach was tying itself into knots for no reason. He hadn’t really eaten in days, nor had he been feeling any actual hunger or cravings, so he didn’t know what had brought it on. Regardless, he wasn’t about to let Aziraphale realize he was feeling anything less than himself—and kept sticking his hands in places they weren’t wanted.

Like helping turn the page of the book, or skewing Aziraphale’s bow tie so the angel had to fix it. Aziraphale sometimes looked down at him with disdain, other times with a half-hidden smile as he thought of how to play along. 

In the end, all Crowley got for his continued efforts was a small kiss on the corner of his mouth and Aziraphale getting up to make tea. He wanted to follow, but something in him sounded an alarm similar to panic and he stayed on the couch.

Nothing in the home seemed amiss. What was he so worried about? 

Crowley rearranged himself on the couch and tried to rationalize the nerves away as he waited for Aziraphale to return with tea. 

“You okay, Dada?” Annie asked, not looking up from her tablet.

“Yes. Why? Why wouldn’t I be?” Crowley asked, fidgeting until he decided to lay back down. That had to look more casual.

“No reason. You just seem...uncomfortable,” Annie said, glancing at him.

“Stomach is sick,” Crowley said dismissively. 

“Should probably eat something. You didn’t come to dinner last night.”

“I don’t really get hungry. You know that.”

“I’ll get you some eggs tomorrow,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard him. 

“That’s hardly necessary. Besides, would probably upset my stomach more. Don’t you think?” He asked, getting up from the couch because Aziraphale had taken too long in the kitchen. He managed to round the corner and be out of Annie’s sight before wrapping his arm around his torso from the sharp little stabs of pain. He really had no idea why his corporal form had decided to start giving him trouble now. His attempts to heal whatever ulcer or ailment he had proved ineffective, and perhaps that fed into his gnawing anxiety. 

“I was going to bring you a cup,” Aziraphale said without looking away from the steeper of tea he was preparing as Crowley came up behind him.

“Is it chamomile?”

“No—Heavens, no. I’m mixing some leaves for you.”

“I don’t need anything special. Just give me what you’ve got,” Crowley said, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale’s waist and peering over his shoulder as the angel mixed what looked to be three different kinds of dried leaves into the steeper for him while a lone, rather out-of-place teabag was waiting in his usual cup.

“Ah, no. Too much caffeine I’m afraid.”

“Trying to send me off to bed?” Crowley asked, nuzzling the back of his partner’s neck. The lack of answer he received left Crowley’s stomach in even more tangles than before. “Angel?” He pressed.

“Hm? Oh. No. Of course not,” he finally replied, turning around to press a kiss to Crowley’s lips and give him a far too affectionate smile. What was that about? The look bordered on pitying and Crowley didn’t appreciate it. 

“If you want me to go to bed and give you space, you just have to say so,” Crowley offered, pulling away to stand on his own. Perhaps he had been a bit too overbearing lately. It was only natural Aziraphale would want time on his own to read without someone putting their hands in the way of his pages. 

“Nonsense. Why would I want you upstairs all alone? Sit with me and Annie.” Aziraphale turned his focus back to the tea as the kettle began to hiss. Before long, they were back on the couch, cradling cups of tea while Annie talked about a man she had met in the town. While she talked, Aziraphale kept sliding his hand between Crowley’s lower back and the cushion of their couch, rubbing small circles into the tense muscles with his thumb. Slowly, the knots in his stomach started to go away and Crowley sipped at his tea with a sigh of relief. 

Things had been going so well in their new home and he had no idea why he would still feel so much anxiety. The cottage had become a home, not just a shop Aziraphale let him stay in, but a home they had built together. The plants were all settled, the books were all stored and displayed at Aziraphale’s whim with no customers coming in trying to steal pieces away from the collection. They were alone together, with Annie coming and going as she pleased. They spent their days and nights together, always together, reading or drinking tea or sharing stories about what transpired the centuries they were apart. Aziraphale would sometimes get himself worked up into fits of laughter that made the plants _bloom_ they were so jovial. It was a little, cozy paradise.

So why was his _heart_ racing? Why did he feel as if something terrible was lurking around the corner, waiting to strike? Even Aziraphale’s hand stroking his back had stopped working now...and his tea was unfinished and cold. 

Crowley miracled it warm and took a small sip. It was so bitter...this awful mixture of mint and who knew what else. He finished it regardless, not wanting Aziraphale to try making him a new cup of the same mixture and have to suffer through it twice. Once his cup was set aside, he returned to laying with his head in the angel’s lap, but kept his hands to himself this time. 

Soon, Aziraphale went back to reading (quietly this time, as he seemed to realize Crowley had never actively been listening) while carding his fingers through Crowley’s hair. 

He must’ve slept for a while without realizing it, because the next thing he knew it was daytime, Aziraphale was not beneath him, and there were voices in the next room. Annie, he recognized. Aziraphale… 

Who was the third? 

Why was there a third? Who had intruded on his paradise? 

Crowley got up from the couch, pleased his stomach seemed to have sorted itself out while he slept, and made his way cautiously to the doorway to the dining room. He kept himself hidden, in case it was a threat and his family needed rescued, and spotted Aziraphale sitting calmly with a cup of cocoa while Annie sat near him, teacup in her hands and one of her feet up on her chair so that her skirt was parted in an inappropriate (albeit subtle) invitation. They seemed relaxed, no sense of danger hanging heavily on the air as they continued speaking in hushed tones to the visitor Crowley wasn’t at a proper angle to see. He could taste them though, the distinct flavor of brimstone on the air when he cautiously tasted it with his tongue.

A demon. Why was Aziraphale speaking politely with a _demon?_

“I am so, so terribly sorry to hear that,” Aziraphale was saying, his tone even coming off genuine.

“No one should suffer through that. No one at all,” Annie added.

“Life in Hell isn’t exactly meant to be one of pleasures,” said the guest, very matter-of-factly, very bluntly. 

Crowley knew that voice.

Oh, fuck. He knew that voice. That was Beelzebub.

“I don’t see why it couldn’t be,” Annie said, wiggling in her seat a little so her long skirt fell down from the knee she had propped up and exposed more of her thigh.

No. 

No, abso-fucking-lutely not!

“Antigone, get your foot off your father’s chair this instant,” Crowley snapped, making his presence known.

“Oh! Dada, you’re awake!” She said, smiling at him and not putting her foot on the floor. In fact, she began swaying her knee back and forth. 

“Put your foot on the floor and sit proper. We have a guest… That no one bothered to wake me for,” he added, looking to Aziraphale coldly before passing a calculated glance toward Beelzebub. 

He was sitting at the table picking his nails, at least bothering to look decent in his black suit and red, regal sash. The fly on his head moved it’s front legs as if rubbing its hands together. 

“Not very demonic to want a lady to be proper,” Beelzebub said, still looking at his nails.

“She’s not a lady. She’s my daughter. I believe you’ve met.” It was so hard not to snap. It was so hard not to grab his daughter and miracle them both to Alpha Centauri where Beelzebub wouldn’t even think to find them. 

“I am too a lady!” Annie protested.

“Now, now. Annie, darling, please do as your father asks,” Aziraphale said.

Of course, she listened to him, the favorite parent.

“How are you, Crowley? Miserable, I bet. Bored out of your mind playing house when you ought to be out tempting, I’m sure.” Beelzebub finally looked up at him, his eyes just as cold and calculating as Crowley’s. 

“Oh, yes. Of course. Terribly boring,” Crowley said, thinking of a thousand different venomous phrases he would’ve said if it were anyone other than his ex-boss, Prince of Hell, attempted executioner sitting across from his daughter. “Surely that’s not why you’re here. To observe how horribly domestic my situation turned out to be.”

“Yes,” Beelzebub said, looking Crowley up and down—head to toe—once before glancing at Aziraphale with that same, scheming look. “Your _situation.”_

“I told Beelzebub about what I did to Michael,” Annie blurted out, her knee slowly reappearing over the top of the table as her foot found its way back to the cushion of her chair. 

“Oh, I see,” Beelzebub said just as suddenly, looking from Annie to Crowley. 

He felt his skin crawling under the prince’s gaze. That fly on his head was rubbing its hands together again. 

“He doesn’t know.”

For Crowley, it felt as if everyone in the room were preparing to turn on him. He wanted to run, but what use would he be if Beelzebub decided to turn on Antigone for revenge and he’d vanished like a coward?

“Would someone like to get me up to speed then? Especially since no one could be bothered to wake me for the arrival of the prince?” Crowley offered, trying to assume a causal posture, leaned against the wall. 

“Beelzebub came looking for any news on Michael,” Aziraphale said, tapping his fingers anxiously on the walls of his cup. “We… We thought it best to be honest given the, er, nature of the situation.”

“Nature of the situation? He sent her,” Crowley spat. 

“I did _not_ send Michael. Why would I send my wife on a suicide mission?” Beelzebub asked, the fly on his head no longer looking so pleased. “In fact, I told her not to go.”

“And I can see how torn up you are,” Crowley said, perhaps not the most wisely. 

“Michael was a terrible woman,” Annie offered, as if she thought she had authority to answer in place of the prince. Crowley looked back toward his ex-boss quickly, expecting to see familiar rage or indignation cross his face. In Hell, a demon could get its tongue burned out for talking out of line. 

“You seem to enjoy speaking ill of my wife in front of me,” was Beelzebub’s only reply. Not a good sign. Not a good sign at all.

“She’s still emotional from the attack,” Aziraphale chimed in, leaning just the smallest bit closer to Annie. 

“No. It’s not that at all, is it, Antigone? You’ve disliked Michael from the day you met.”

“She ripped off my father’s wing,” Annie said, holding her own in a fight she had no business being in. “And she was rude to you at dinner.”

That infuriating fly was rubbing its hands together again and Beelzebub was actually starting to smile.

“Hope your son’s no worse for wear,” Crowley spat out. Aziraphale was fast to reprimand him with a dark scowl. Annie simply appeared shocked and Beelzebub shrugged with indifference.

“Yes. It was quite unfortunate having his soul brought before me for questioning. He’ll be staying Below for the time being. If he shows any signs of improvement, I have it on good authority that Lord Satan will approve a new corporal form for him.”

So he literally was no worse for wear. Should’ve figured he couldn’t kill the damned monster like he wanted.

“If I may, Beelzebub,” Aziraphale began, sounding far too cordial. The prince gestured for him to proceed. “Was Michael aware that Wrath’s soul had returned to...to Below? She seemed to come to my shop seeking—”

“She came to your shop to kill you. I thought that was obvious. How is it you two fools managed to stop the Great War?”

“It really is a miracle, isn’t it?” Annie asked.

“Don’t side with him!” Crowley spat, reflexively. Whatever this was—some rebellious faze or game meant to torment him—Crowley did not appreciate it.

“Beelzebub is a lady, Dada. I’ve told you this,” Annie said, bringing her teacup to her lips as punctuation.

“Annie!” Aziraphale snapped. “This is not the time… Please remember who you’re speaking to.”

“So if you have all the information you need, I’m sure you’re just chomping at the bit to get back to work. Making sure everyone gets on with those faxes, yeah?” Crowley said, his stomach filling with a thousand pin-pricks of pain. 

“No. I’m staying,” Beelzebub said, cocking an eyebrow at him as if in anticipation for a challenge.

“Oh, how splendid!” Aziraphale said, convincing no one. “I should… Ah, yes, the guest room is not quite...”

“We don’t have a guest room,” Crowley hissed. They had a lavender nursery with no drapes (because the angel was hellbent on ivory curtains and Crowley was not compromising on green). Beelzebub was not making use of their nursery for anything. 

“I’m not in need of a room.”

Crowley was struggling to find a proper way to ask the prince what in the literal Hell he wanted with them. Just to watch them all squirm? He wasn’t about to try anything, knowing his son and wife had been discorporated for trying. He should still be under the impression that Holy Water had no effect on Crowley and Hellfire had no effect on Aziraphale. But if Beelzebub did attack and they fought back, that would bring the forces of Hell to their door, seeking to join the fight.

“Relax. I have no interest in hurting your daughter, Crowley. And the angel is of no concern to me. I came to validate my suspicions. Michael is not coming back. It’s all I needed to know.”

“So why are you staying?” Crowley asked, feeling venom welling up in his mouth that he had no choice but to swallow. 

“I thought that was obvious, but it seems you’ve gone so native you’re oblivious to all kinds of things. No matter. We’ll get you back up to speed once this whole...situation is resolved.”

He did not like that. No, that sounded like a threat. His stomach flipped again and he had to fight to resist the impulse to wrap his arms around it. Best not to show weakness now. This was far from the reunion he’d been fearing for months, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t sinister.

“And, er, what…what does that mean exactly?”

“I can’t have you up here playing house for the rest of eternity. Our Lord still needs souls. I need you back to work once this situation is resolved. Of course, if you’d like to protest, I can simply call you Below and sort it out there with Satan directly.”

“Not necessary,” Crowley answered automatically. He’d rather spend his days wandering South Downs, tempting people to do what they already intended than even think about going near Hell any time soon. “And… What situation is it we’re waiting on? I know a good bar to start in. I hear the local pastor goes there when he thinks his wife isn’t looking. Could go tonight if you needed me to.”

“I don’t think you have any business being in a bar right now, Dada,” Annie said, looking at him and shrugging. 

The realization suddenly hit him. Hatchlings. Even Beelzebub who had no business knowing anything about it was mentioning it so casually. They’d done it one time, and not even in the proper way, and everyone was treating him as if he were already with child! 

“Oh, for Satan’s sake! We can wait a few decades. It doesn’t have to be right now. There, situation resolved. I’ll go tonight—then you can leave too.”

“Doesn’t _smell_ like it’s resolved, Crowley,” Beelzebub said, looking at him with annoyance. “And as much as I’d like to put you to work, I already know you wouldn’t get very far. It’s only a matter of time now.”

“Doesn’t _smell_ like it?” 

Maybe this was an arrangement they’d come to when he had been asleep? Perhaps Beelzebub had arrived, assuaged his curiosity about the whereabouts of Michael, and demanded Crowley return to work. It would be just like Aziraphale spout out something ill-informed like “He can’t go! We’re expecting!”

“Anyway, I think we’ll be stepping out for a bit,” Beelzebub said, standing up and leaving his chair pulled out behind him. Crowley straightened, believing the prince meant to have a word with him in private, only to realize Annie was now standing at Beelzebub’s side, her hand brushing a fly off his shoulder. 

“No!” Crowley snapped, not really thinking.

“Crowley, my dear, now’s not the time...” Aziraphale said, quietly yet still firm.

“Aziraphale! That’s a _demon!_ You know what happened last time!” Crowley was frantically looking between the angel and his daughter. Beelzebub was practically sneering at him while the fly on his head was rubbing its hands together menacingly. 

“Annie and Beelzebub arrived together this morning. Seems...they met in town. They have plans to get lunch.”

Crowley felt absolutely helpless as Annie hugged him goodbye and pressed a kiss to his cheek with a quietly whispered “it’s fine, I promise” in his ear. Beelzebub was sneering the whole way out the door which he at least held open for Annie and closed behind her—an act of chivalry that was virtually unknown among demons. His parting words to Crowley were a simple, “Remember, you’re a demon also, Crowley.”

“How could you just let them go off like that!?” Crowley asked, turning to look at Aziraphale who was worrying his cup of cocoa. “You didn’t say anything! Why didn’t you say _something?”_

“I think, Crowley, that it might be a good thing for Annie to have good...friendship with your boss. It might give us some protection if anything else is to happen.”

“Demons don’t have each other’s backs! Demons don’t have _anyone’s_ backs! Beelzebub stood there while Michael and Wrath attacked our daughter! He let them _hurt_ her! Now he’s out there doing _you know exactly what_ to her!”

“There’s nothing to be done about it except talk to her later. You know as well as I do that Annie doesn’t _listen_ to us about these kinds of things.”

“Oh, doesn’t listen when we tell her maybe she shouldn’t fuck the Prince of Hell!?”

“Darling, please sit down,” Aziraphale said. Crowley opened his mouth to protest only to have the angel shake his head firmly. “Please, Crowley. Sit. We need to talk.”

Crowley felt as if the rug had been torn out from under his feet and slowly sank into the chair that Beelzebub had left out. The tone of his angel’s voice did not sound friendly and he had the sinking suspicion he’d done something wrong—that Aziraphale was angry with him. Well, how did Aziraphale expect him to react to finding Beelzebub in his dining room? He thought he handled it well…

He was a demon, Crowley thought. It wasn’t possible for him to do right.

Beelzebub had reminded him of that as he’d left. 

“What, Angel?” Crowley asked, trying to sound indifferent as a horrible bolt of pain shot through his stomach. 

“My dear… Take my hand,” Aziraphale said, offering that same pitying smile he’d given Crowley the day before. What was behind that look? Crowley was starting to feel as if he could choke on the paranoia welling in his chest. He was afraid to take Aziraphale’s hand. He was afraid to stay sitting at the table. He wanted to flee, pretend that none of this was happening—that it was all some sort of nightmare. “Please, Crowley. Take my hand.”

“Alright,” Crowley said, shrugging to make himself look indifferent as he placed his definitely not trembling hand into Aziraphale’s. “Temptation accomplished,” he added for good measure, earning a genuine smile the put him at least a little at ease.

Aziraphale couldn’t possibly smile at him like that if he was planning to end things. Right? 

Wait… Where had that thought come from? Aziraphale couldn’t possibly be wanting to separate simply because Beelzebub had shown up, right? He wouldn’t… 

Crowley’s stomach seized and he had to swallow hard to keep from gagging outright. Where was he going to go? If Aziraphale kicked him out, where was he going to go? He had _nowhere_ to go… And what about Annie? What would he tell her? 

That he was a demon. He’d simply tell her he was a demon and demons didn’t get happy endings with two kids and white picket fences.

“Crowley? Darling, it’s nothing bad—”

“I have nowhere to go,” Crowley blurted out. He tried to pull his hand away, only to have Aziraphale squeeze it harder. 

“My dear, I don’t want you to go anywhere,” Aziraphale said, stroking the back of Crowley’s hand with his thumb in soothing little circles. “I do believe...that we need to touch base, though. About several matters.”

“If I did something wrong, you don’t need to wait to spring it on me all at once. You could’ve told me sooner.” Crowley’s stomach gave another terrible lurch and he instinctively gripped at it with his free hand. It felt as if someone had stabbed him while simultaneously shooting him through the heart. “Or—Or if it’s about Beelzebub… I really don’t know how you expected me to handle that. You should’ve woken me when they arrived. I don’t care what Annie thinks. I don’t care that Sandalphon was answering Beelzebub’s ‘prayer’ when he saved Annie from Michael before. Beelzebub is a demon—he’s royalty in Hell. He’s dangerous and I don’t want that for Annie.”

“Yes… I’m not excited about this intrigue of hers either. But Beelzebub has shown no hostility here. In fact, she was quite polite—”

“Beelzebub is a man, not some girl Annie is going to the dress shop with!”

“Beelzebub is a man in the same right that we are,” Aziraphale said, smiling that irritating, pitying smile that Crowley was beginning to fear. “And female in the same way that we are. She gave birth to Wrath and identifies as his mother. Which brings me—”

“Beelzebub used to hold demons’ heads down in the lake of sulfur when they pissed him off. He’s ripped off his fair share of wings, I can promise you that. He’s not some meek little girl. He’s not nurturing or kind or compassionate. This is a trap and you’re all falling for it!”

“I don’t think Beelzebub has any intention of hurting Annie. She’s seen what’s happened to those who’ve tried. Now, may I digress—”

“I don’t like it, Angel. I don’t like it at all,” Crowley said, shaking his head. He should’ve followed Annie when she left. This could all be part of some awful trap. Annie had probably been dragged away to Hell to be tortured and her fathers were just sitting there at the table gossiping about Beelzebub like old ladies at the hair salon. 

“Crowley, there’s something else we need to talk about. Yes?” Aziraphale said, looking at him expectantly. Another twinge of pain shot through Crowley’s stomach and he visibly flinched. 

“I’m just sick. I’m… I’m sure it happens from time to time,” he said, at a loss for what else the angel could possibly want from him. 

Unless he wanted to ask for space. Crowley had been clinging lately. Well, since _that_ night, really. He couldn’t help it. He hadn’t realized it was going to become an issue. He should’ve… Perhaps, he really should’ve expected it to be a problem. They used to go centuries without crossing paths. Aziraphale was content to be independent. He didn’t need Crowley attached to his side at every moment. 

He was going to ask for space. 

Why did that feel like a shot of Holy Water straight to his heart?

“My darling? It’s nothing bad. Please, don’t look so troubled. It’s—It’s a good thing! A very good thing. You have to have realized it by now… Yes?”

Space was a good thing? No, Crowley couldn’t realize that. It devastated him. His daughter had just run off with the Prince of Hell and his husband was about to ask him to move out...

“I can go… I’ll go,” Crowley said, feeling the words burn his mouth.

“What? Crowley—Darling, you’re… You’re not going anywhere in your condition! For heaven’s sake!”

“Stomach’s just sick… Don’t need to go making excuses on my behalf,” Crowley said, his stomach clenching tightly. “I’ll give you space. It’s fine. I’ll go back to working and...and I’m sure we’ll cross paths again when the time’s right. If…if you even still want me after I’ve gone back to—”

“Crowley! I just told you, you’re not going _anywhere!_ You’re staying here. From what Beelzebub told me this morning, you should be in bed!”

“I just have a stomach ache!”

“You’re _expecting!_ It’s hard work for an occult form to create life! _That’s_ why you’re sick and—and emotional!”

“Emotional?” Crowley echoed, his mind still stuck on the first half of what Aziraphale had said.

Expecting? No… They hadn’t done it properly for _that_ to have happened. What lies had Beelzebub told them this morning?

“Darling, you’ve been my shadow for the past two months. I really don’t mind it, my love. There’s nowhere else I’d rather you be than at my side where you are _safe.”_

“But… I’m not… There’s no baby. There’s no way that could have happened.” As he said the words, he started becoming more aware of the knots in his stomach—the biting pain, the sick feeling, the burning and constant fear. In that way, he became aware of something else, something much quieter, beneath the nearly overwhelming sensations.

He closed his eyes and focused on it… Honing in.

It was something—something different. But it didn’t exactly scream ‘baby’ at him. To him, it just felt needy. Whatever he had picked up on made him want to scoot his chair closer to Aziraphale. Made him want to squeeze the angel’s hand that much harder. 

Pathetic. 

He wasn’t expecting like Aziraphale hoped. He’d just gotten attached—dependent. He’d let the angel claim him, and now he was pining after him like a schoolgirl. 

“My dear… I can sense it on you. I _know._ It’s alright. I’m excited! It’s a _good_ thing. Annie is excited too.”

“There’s no baby,” Crowley repeated, pulling his hand away from Aziraphale’s in order to wrap it around his stomach. “There’s no baby… There’s no baby.”

( ) ( ) ( )

Aziraphale knew the Almighty had played one of Her cards very shortly after he and Crowley had finally left their room after their passionate night together. Crowley’s energy had changed. He sauntered around their cottage, but always a few steps behind Aziraphale wherever he went. He fidgeted more. He stayed close. He got closer and stayed there. Aziraphale couldn’t read a book without Crowley’s hands on him or his head in his lap. He couldn’t go to an auction without Crowley standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him. 

He didn’t mind. How could he? 

New life was growing inside of his partner—a product of their love and God’s grace. 

The plants in their cottage bloomed, grew stronger and faster without Crowley’s abuse. 

It wasn’t long after that when Annie passed him a knowing smile across the dinner table one night. Aziraphale had been struggling to eat with his left hand because Crowley had hold of his right one and wouldn’t let it go.

She could smell the change in his pheromones, she said later. 

Aziraphale could sense God’s grace and Annie could smell it.

Crowley, somehow, was growing the child without any awareness whatsoever. A couple months passed and Aziraphale expected, perhaps, he might start to _show,_ but it hadn’t happened. He remembered how slowly Annie had grown and feared it might be quite the same with a developing fetus. There was no morning sickness, but how could there? Crowley hardly ate, and it wasn’t as if he would keep his organs working when he didn’t need them. No morning sickness, no mood swings…

Just...spiraling. 

If he couldn’t be close, Crowley started to spiral. Aziraphale could step away just long enough to make a cup of tea and Crowley would have an aura of absolute distress by the time he came back. You would’ve thought their kitchen was a war zone for how much relief flooded Crowley’s face whenever Aziraphale returned to the couch. It was as if he thought Aziraphale would step into the kitchen and never come back to him.

The behavior had Aziraphale completely baffled until Beelzebub had shown up to shed light on the subject—not that that had been the purpose of her visit. She had merely been walking Annie home when Aziraphale caught them coming up the front walk together and demanded they come inside for tea. 

“It stinks in here,” Beelzebub had said, immediately.

“Dada is pregnant,” Annie said, with a shark’s smile. 

“That explains it then.” Beelzebub had finished her tea in three sips, even though it was scalding hot. “Surprised he’s not wrapped around your chest then. How’d you manage that?”

“I’m not sure what you could possibly mean,” Aziraphale had responded, even though he’d had the thought himself several times. Crowley’s desire to be impossibly close could be accomplished if he turned serpent and wrapped himself around Aziraphale’s shoulders. 

“Demons don’t create life, you stupid angel. We’re made to destroy it. It’s unnatural. His very being is rejecting the situation it’s been put in. Lucky he has you. Demons don’t typically enjoy comforting those in need.”

And so she had explained being pregnant with Wrath—overwhelmed with constant feelings of dread and fear, only to be rebuked by Michael at every attempt for solace or comfort. She’d given birth alone, had flashbacks of when she’d Fallen, and woke up alone without the baby or Michael anywhere to be found. It was a miserable insult to the miracle and joy that should come with a new birth. The thought of Crowley going through anything similar left Aziraphale feeling sick and anxious. 

“How long did it last? The pregnancy?” Aziraphale had asked.

“A year and a half, I suppose. I wasn’t keeping track. I spent most of it in bed. Suspect the serpent should do the same. He’s about to be very, very sick.” She’d looked pleased and Aziraphale resented that.

Demons… He didn’t see what Annie could possibly find desirable in such a character. 

Oh how Aziraphale had hoped it wasn’t true, but before long Crowley’s spiraling became permanent. If Aziraphale wasn’t touching him, wasn’t sitting with him or laying with him, he was trembling—he was whimpering. He’d become so unlike himself—so timid and self-conscious and vulnerable. 

It was devastating. 

Already, Aziraphale couldn’t wait for it to be over. Couldn’t wait to have _his_ Crowley back.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thank you for joining me on this weird-ass journey that just keeps getting weirder!
> 
> I wanted to give a heads up because there's a lot of Beelzebub in this chapter. Lacking a concrete gender is part of being an occult being so pronouns get a little tricky. I don't want to offend anyone or make any readers uncomfortable so I wanted to say Beelzebub is canon non-binary, but in this story identifies by they/them pronouns personally, but is not bothered by Crowley referring to them as he/him, or by Annie/Aziraphale calling them by she/her.
> 
> Really hope this doesn't upset/offend anyone! Not my intention at all ): Beelzebub is just...a demon making the most of their situation.

Crowley hadn’t wanted to put any weight into Beelzebub’s claims or the rattled looks Aziraphale and Annie gave him after the prince departed. Everyone stared at him as if he were made of fragile shards of glass, held together with wet glue and ready to collapse at any moment. He rather liked attention, but learned quickly that it wasn’t this kind he wanted. He didn’t like pitying looks. Didn’t like being told “no, no, dear—I’ll go and get it” whenever he tried to stand up for something. He wasn’t an invalid he was—

Truthfully, Crowley didn’t even feel comfortable thinking it.

As far as he was concerned, this was all just some trick by the prince that Aziraphale and Annie were going along with. Yes, the more Crowley thought about it, the more that sounded true. There was no way for him to be expecting. He hadn’t put in the effort to develop a womb or any of the organs necessary to conceive. 

Then, one night after about a month of nearly agonizing stomach pains, he thought maybe he ought to put in that effort and see if it helped. Aziraphale and Antigone had been sitting at the little table in the kitchen, snacking on cheap pastries from the nearby grocery store, when Crowley stood up and slowly made his way toward the stairs. Aziraphale called after him, telling him to sit down and he’d go get whatever it was he needed. Crowley dismissed him, politely, and went to their room to lie down in bed. With his hands on his stomach, Crowley closed his eyes and focused. 

Yes… There was no denying it after that. He could feel the quiet thrum of life somewhere deep inside himself. He concentrated on it—trying to envision what it might be like, what it might look like—while forming the proper organs around it. At least internally, anyway. For now, he would keep the rest of him as he preferred it to be—as he was comfortable with.

As he formed the womb, it felt as if hot lead were being poured into his stomach. He feared, at first, that he had damaged the growing baby or ended it completely. The life force that he felt, however, neither diminished nor faded. Once the womb had been formed in its entirety, the little not-quite-a-hatchling wrapped safely inside, the pain stopped. All of it.

Crowley let out a heavy sigh of relief and laid spent on the mattress with his eyes closed. He guessed it made sense that growing a baby without a proper womb might be painful—then laughed at the thought of any of this making sense. The Almighty simply saw fit to torment him, is what it was. Oh, you thought you’d tempt an angel into sin and get away with it? Haha, nice try.

For some reason, the thought depressed him and Crowley found himself rolling onto his side with his face buried in the angel’s pillow. What if Aziraphale thought he’d done it of his own volition? They hadn’t agreed that it was time for a baby… What if he thought Crowley’s obliviousness had been a ruse? He had to think that already, Crowley realized. What idiot—occult or otherwise—who could feel a life force, didn’t recognize one blooming inside himself?

Aziraphale had to feel so manipulated and was just too polite to show it.

And all the stupid clinging! Crowley growled and rolled onto his other side, covering his face in annoyance and shame.

It was just like his Fall. He hadn’t meant to. He hadn’t realized he was doing all the wrong things…but in the end it didn’t matter. He _had_ done the wrong things, asked the wrong questions, pressed the wrong buttons, and it cost him Her love.

Suddenly, Crowley realized with an icy bolt of pain through his chest, this misstep was going to cost him Aziraphale’s love instead. It had been given and, in a moment of weakness, he’d made the choices that would cause it to be ripped away.

The thought made him want to cry, want to scream, but it hurt and terrorized him so much he could only lie there and stare at the wall in silence. What else could you do when you’d burned your whole world to the ground at your feet? 

“My dear? Is everything alright?”

Crowley would’ve flinched at his voice if he could, but he was frozen. His whole body felt as if it’d been left out in the snow—icy to his very core.

He felt the mattress shift as Aziraphale sat down beside him, a warm hand suddenly stroking his head. 

“Was it something I said? You got up so suddenly, I—I’m sorry if I said something to make you uncomfortable.”

_Don’t you dare let him sit there and feel bad about himself because of you,_ a rather harsh, rather vicious voice hissed in Crowley’s head. _Don’t you dare cause him any more suffering._

“’S fine. My stomach hurt. I needed to lay down.” Crowley wanted to say more, wanted to nuzzle into the warm hand petting his hair…but he couldn’t move.

“Still? Oh dear… I-I wonder if maybe I—perhaps I could try healing it for you. Perhaps the baby is causing you to have ulcers. Ladies have all sorts of pains when they’re expecting. Oh, I shouldn’t have to tell you that. Of course you know… Could that work, do you think? Can I try?”

The thought of Aziraphale wasting his grace on Crowley left the demon feeling even more hollow. He wanted to tell him it wasn’t necessary, he’d fixed it himself, but another part of him—a very sick, demonic, greedy part—was desperate to keep Aziraphale as close as possible now that he was here. 

“Please?” Crowley whispered, not daring to look his angel in the face.

“Of course,” Aziraphale said, slowly placing one hand on Crowley’s stomach and pressing gently. 

All at once, it was as if everything bad he had ever felt, every painful memory and idea, was whisked away. Crowley felt nothing but warmth and the gentle pulse of his growing hatchling. A hatchling! Just what he’d been wanting for so many decades! All that existed was himself and the angel and their new, tiny lifeform. 

And, all at once, it was gone. Aziraphale had taken his hand away and Crowley felt as if he’d come crashing back into the lake of sulfur. It hurt. His body was fine, but everything else about his being ached unbearably. Suddenly, he realized he was crying.

“Did I hurt you?” Aziraphale suddenly asked, voice shaking.

“No,” Crowley choked out, forcing himself to answer when his mouth begged to stay clamped shut to hide his forked tongue. “It felt wonderful.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, sighing gently in a contented sort of way as he resumed petting Crowley’s hair. “I think… Yes, I think I’m going to grab some tea and a book and come join you. What kind would you like, my love?”

“Chamomile,” Crowley answered, squeezing out more tears as Aziraphale leaned down to kiss his cheek regardless.

How could he have ever thought the angel didn’t love him? He felt so ashamed… 

“Actually… I think I’ll have Annie prepare it. I think my place is right here for now. Just a moment.”

Every word was like a knife in Crowley’s heart. 

Aziraphale got up just long enough to go to the door and call for Annie. He asked her for a specific book and some tea, then took off his jacket, waistcoat, and bow tie in order to be more comfortable as he sat down on his side of the bed. Crowley was fast to roll over and fold himself against the angel, seeking out his warmth and affection. 

“I love you, Angel,” Crowley whispered, his body starting to shiver as the cold settled over him again.

“Oh, my dear… I love you so much. There’s not even a word for it. I adore you. You are my happiness, darling. You’re everything.” On and on, kind word after kind word. Crowley melted into them, hanging on to each and every one. “I love you, Crowley. I do. So very, very much.”

( ) ( ) ( )

Annie was sprawled out on a red, plaid blanket by the water, her head in Beelzebub’s lap. The demon prince was buzzing happily—she always did when she let her mind wander—and was braiding and unbraiding long locks of Antigone’s hair.

“Izzz there any place you want to go this afternoon?” She asked, buzzing a long time on the first ‘s’ and then catching herself for the rest. Michael used to strike at her any time she buzzed, but Annie found it delightful. It reminded her of her Dada, though she would rather cut her own tongue out and swallow it whole than mention that to Beelz. It was no secret to her that her father and her lover did not get along.

“Could we go to lunch? I’ve got such a craving for pizza.”

“Pizzzza?” The prince buzzed, extracting a shrill laugh from Antigone who practically rolled back and forth in her lap. “Do you actually want pizza or are you just trying to get me to pronounce my ‘z’s?” Beelzebub asked, buzzing the first time intentionally and then holding the rest back.

“No! I actually want pizza,” Annie replied, only half-lying. “Papa never lets me have it. He says it’s just junk food!”

“Junk food! After all the pastries he eats! Pizzzza it is!” Beelzebub declared, earning another shrill laugh from Annie. 

It had never been her plan, really, to seduce the prince. She’d liked Beelzebub from day one, but had never planned on seeing her again—let alone by choice or under better circumstances. After being mutilated in Hell and chased by the demons while Beelzebub hid in the kitchen and did nothing to intervene, Annie swore her momentary infatuated had been satiated. 

But then she’d been out prowling the pubs for a lover for the night (a task proving very difficult in the little seaside village) and Beelzebub had been there. At first glance, Annie had almost turned to run, but then the prince’s laidback demeanor had charmed her into staying.

“It’s true what they said then. Crowley moved his little family off to the sea thinking we wouldn’t find them,” Beelzebub had said. 

“Dada wanted to get away from the bookshop,” Annie had answered, sitting at the stool beside Beelzebub’s and ordering a drink from the bartender who couldn’t take his eyes off the fly atop Beelz’s head. It was munching on a piece of bread while Beelzebub was snacking on the meat from what had once been a sandwich and now lay deconstructed on the plate. “Seems people keep turning up there trying to kill me.”

“Yes. Wrath told me Crowley had crushed him to death when Michael sent him to you. He’s alive and well now though. A demon, in Hell. I think I’ll keep him there a while. Might do him some good. If he’s earned it, I could arrange for him to have another corporal body. But I don’t think he intends to calm down at all now that someone doused Michael in Holy Water.” Beelzebub lifted a piece of lettuce covered in three different sauces up to the fly on her head. It dropped the piece of bread it had been snacking on and grabbed the lettuce instead. 

They talked about Michael a while as Beelzebub ordered more and more food which she split with her familiar. Annie was three cocktails deep and listening to only half of what was said about Hell and demons and the workload of being a prince and what Lucifer demanded—what her Dada had been like, tangling up people’s feet. Beelzebub was a bit drunk too, it seemed, for she was rather candid. 

A rather candid bottomless pit. She must’ve had six different entrees before the kitchen closed.

“I don’t come to Earth very often. It’s only natural I make the most of it,” Beelzebub said as her plates were cleared away. 

Annie, now five cocktails deep, laughed heartily and clasped her hand onto the prince’s thigh.

“You have mustard on your fly!” She said, bursting with laughter when the prince looked downward at the fly of her black trousers as opposed to the fly on her head. “No! Your other fly! If it were down here, I’d take care of it myself,” she said, then laughed so hard she ended up falling off her barstool while Beelzebub was left scrambling to catch her.

“You’re calling attention to yourself,” Beelzebub said, almost sternly.

“That’s alright! People like to watch!” She laughed even harder at her own bad joke and Beelzebub (Annie hoped) paid their tabs and led her from the pub out to the shore. “Let’s go for a swim!”

“Child, that water is dizzzzgusting! We’re not swimming in there!” But Annie was already tearing for the shore, undressing as she went with the prince four steps behind her. She splashed around a while and Beelzebub stayed on the shore watching over her, seemingly afraid to touch the water. 

“Water’s perfect! Come on in!” Annie called to her, wading in the pitch black sea. 

“You’re playing in radioactive wazzzte!” Beelzebub called. 

“What do you care? You’re a demon!” Annie shouted. “But I guess you’re right. There’s no swimming allowed. Sign says so. I should get out…”

“Yezzzz! You should!”

So Annie did get out, completely undressed, and tripped over some plant that had washed ashore. She landed on her front, getting a mouthful of sand, and laughed because it seemed like the appropriate thing to do.

“For Satan’zzz zzzake, child!” Beelzebub said, stalking over to her and grabbing her up quite forcefully by her arm. 

“Oh my,” Annie said, channeling her best impersonation of her Papa. “You vicious brute! What a terrible demon you are!” She called, pretending to struggle just so Beelzebub had to grip her harder. “Oh, you’re wicked! Wicked, cruel demon! Unhand me!” She said, laughing until her lips were swallowed up by the prince’s.

They’d started seeing each other every few nights after that until her Papa had caught Beelzebub walking her home. Now, they were together more hours than not—simply so Annie had an escape from the terrible aura that had fallen over their little cottage. 

Beelzebub couldn’t even stand to be around the cottage, and not just because she was afraid of her Papa and didn’t care for her Dada in the slightest. The aura, a product of her serpent father’s pregnancy, gave her bad memories. Beelzebub had told her angel father a little bit about what a demon experienced while growing new life, but kept a fair amount to herself. She would have kept it a secret longer if not for how distressed Annie became, feeling that dark cloud settle into herself as well.

“Carrying a child was like carrying the loss of the Almighty inside me for a time, I think,” Beelzebub had explained. They were walking through an abandoned shipyard that the prince had transported them to. Annie didn’t even know if it was even in the same country. “It hurts when you’re a demon. I suffered… I suffered for years. Had to have been years. My body ached, my soul burned. It was like I was being damned a second time. There was a night I got the idea that crawling into the lake of sulfur would heal me. It didn’t—of course it didn’t. Michael attacked me for that. Said I put her baby at risk. That was all she cared about.” 

They talked about Michael a while—they almost always did when they spent time together, but Annie allowed the prince to vent.

“I remember Falling. I don’t care that I Fell. I would rather be in Hell than Up There any day. Doesn’t make the experience any less excruciating. Giving birth to Wrath felt like Falling all over again. Carrying him was like…like being stuck where you were right before you Fell. It was this moment, this tricky little moment, where you feel all of Her love just bleed right out of you. You know, in that instance, that She will never think of you or care for you again. You feel it leave…and then you Fall.

“I was standing there with your father when he Fell, you know. Most of us were just in shock. He’s the only one who started trying to get forgiveness. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ the whole way down. I was glad they turned him into a snake. Shut him up.” Beelzebub paused then to kick a hole into the side of a rotting, wooden boat. Annie had the sense that she was angrier about Falling than she was willing to admit. “I didn’t like being pregnant with Wrath, but I love my son. He’s delightfully evil and vile and everything I would hope for in a child, but I wouldn’t go through it again. Your father…he’s probably not going to be the same coming out as he was going in.”

“Why? Papa isn’t like Michael. Papa is there for him. That has to count for something.”

“Demons are selfish, greedy monsters. He’s going to take all of the love the angel has to give ‘til there’s none left. Probably before he’s even half way through carrying that child. No matter what the angel gives him, it’s not going to be enough. You’re not going to be enough. He’ll take and he’ll take and he’ll take, and the whole time he won’t feel any of it. When you Fall, you feel Her love drain out of you. When a demon creates life, you feel all the love drain out of you. Anything good you ever felt is gone. You’re carrying the absence of Her love in the pit of your stomach and call it your baby.”

“But is that always the case?” Annie asked, not wanting to imagine a word in which that were true. “What about—”

“The only other demon I know who gave birth is dead. The father lives, but the mother discorporated.”

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t,” Annie said, wrapping her arms around Beelz’s shoulders and holding her while she growled and kicked at the boat. “And I’ll love you more than enough to make up for all of that,” she added while pressing kisses to the prince’s neck. She nuzzled into her back, shuffling around more than necessary in order to release more pheromones. It worked and Beelzebub channeled that anger into something a little more productive than kicking holes into boats. 

They’d been inseparable since, Annie keeping up on her promise to offer love whenever it was required. Apparently, when dealing with a demon, it was required frequently. Annie didn’t mind. Being out of the house meant her Papa could sit in the bedroom with her Dada without feeling guilty for “ignoring” her.

Annie made a point to hold Beelzebub’s hand as they walked into town together, the red plaid blanket draped over her shoulder. They got take away pizza from two different restaurants, then picked up bottles of wine at the local grocery store before heading back to the shore to eat. Beelzebub liked the shore and Annie didn’t mind spending time there since no one else ever came by to stare at them.

Beelzebub laid on her stomach on the blanket this time, flinging open one of the pizza boxes after drinking straight from the bottle of wine. She handed the first piece to the fly on her head, then grabbed one for herself.

“Would you ever come to live on Earth, do you think?” Annie asked, settling into her third piece of pizza after Beelzebub had effectively eaten half of one. 

“I can’t. I’m royalty and my place is in Hell.”

“But you’re royalty. Doesn’t that mean you can do what you want?”

“Only to a certain extent. Lord Satan would be rather upset to find me off playing house like Crowley. Your father’s lucky Satan has better things to worry about than one disappointing serpent or he’d spend his days getting gutted and healed and gutted again.”

“I always thought Satan made some good points… I didn’t realize he was as evil as the Christians want me to think.”

“Child, you don’t know what you’re talking about ever, do you?” Beelz asked, glaring upwards as the fly dropped the crust of its piece of pizza onto the slice she was about to pick up.

“I just mean that the Satanic Bible says—”

“Of course the Satanic Bible makes him sound good! It’s meant to tempt followers! It doesn’t mean Hell is actually a tropical paradise! Get ahold of yourself, stupid girl. Does anything about having glowing yellow eyeballs or _this_ on your face sound good?” Beelzebub asked, showing her true form for just a moment—the slash of rot crossing her nose and flies surrounding her—before changing back.

“I think you’re cute both ways,” Annie said, shrugging and earning a frustrated growl from the prince. “Also, I think you wouldn’t have such a problem if you let me wash your face.”

“It grows right back, Antigone. Stop asking.”

“Well, yes, if you use the soap they have in Hell. I’m sure it’s awful. I have some lavender and tea tree soap I think would do wonders.”

The fly on Beelzebub’s head shivered and the prince reached up to pat it gently as if offering it comfort. 

“I’m fine the way I am,” Beelzebub said.

“Yes. Rather fine indeed,” Annie echoed, smiling at Beelz until she made eye contact, then winking. 

“Child, what is it you see in me?” Beelzebub asked, picking up two slices of pizza and stacking them on top of each other. She was about to take a bite, then paused to take several gulps straight from her bottle of wine.

“See in you? You kidnapped me, of course! I’m a frightened hostage!” Annie said, giggling as she took a swig from the bottle Beelzebub handed her with a little smirk. 

Beelzebub absolutely resented true compliments. It was much like when she had been with Wrath. Calling Beelzebub vicious and wicked was the same as calling her kind and sweet. Calling her vile and awful was to say she was cute. The only thing Annie couldn’t bring herself to do was say she hated the prince in place of love. No, she would rather just say ‘I love you’ and watch the way it made the demon squirm.

For what it was worth, Beelzebub hadn’t told Annie she hated her or loved her.

“Ah, yes. I assume your fathers should’ve named you Persephone. By the time I’m through with you, you’ll be trapped in Hades with me except for a few months out of the year.”

“How positively dreadful!” Annie proclaimed, taking another drink of wine and killing the bottle so that Beelzebub would have to open the second one. “Beelz?” 

“Hn?” The prince hummed, picking a large slice of pepperoni off her pizza and holding it up to the fly on her head. It rubbed its feet together and took it happily.

“If I were to come stay with you Below sometimes…you don’t suppose it would cause any problems do you?”

“Problemzzz? Hastur would have your head on a stake before the first night has reached an end.”

“But you’re his prince! He’s only a duke. Surely you could stop him.”

“Or I could just keep you chained in my bed chamber. No sense letting you go anywhere else. Not like there’s anywhere else you’d rather be.”

“Oh my! What an awful thing to say. Wretched demon!” Annie said, drinking from the second wine bottle because she had no more room for pizza. Her bottomless pit of a lover would take care of the last third of the pizza that remained. 

“Antigone, I wouldn’t let anyone down there hurt you. Short of Satan himself. And I already know to some degree of zzzatisfaction that he sees you as one of his own. What with all the souls you tempt and condemn for us. I think you’re a better demon than your lazzzzy father.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Annie said, handing Beelz the bottle. Before long, they were both satisfyingly drunk and full. Beelzebub was watching the sunset while buzzing quietly to herself and Annie was lying with her head rested on the small of the prince’s back, staring up at the clouds.

Perhaps, she thought, Persephone wouldn’t have been such a bad name.

( ) ( ) ( )

Beelzebub had been engaged in their affair with Antigone for six months, one week, three days, aaaaand two hours. They had magic’ed themselves a watch that’s sole purpose was to track the passage of their time together. They had made a similar one for themselves and Michael, but that one had been cast away very shortly into their courtship for Prince Beelzebub realized much too late that they didn’t really care for the way the blond monster treated them.

Beelzebub had thought the angel had been pretty, even when she had been ethereal. They absolutely leapt at the chance to play hero to her, dragging her out of the lake of sulfur when she was too distraught to swim for herself as the other archangels did. At first, Michael had seemed thankful. Michael hugged them and nuzzled their neck, thanked them…came home with them, shared a bed with them, _really_ shared the bed with them.

Made a child with them and then changed. She had always been wicked. She had always been evil and harsh and mean—the very best traits in a demon. Beelzebub had been happy to make Michael their princess. They didn’t care that oftentimes, Michael’s nastiness was directed at them. 

Not until they had become pregnant. What Beelzebub wouldn’t have given just to have a hand to hold—just to have a shoulder to rest against. All they got were sharp criticisms, equal blows to the ego and face. Beelzebub had crawled off to give birth alone, shamefully terrified of what their wife would do to them if she caught them in such a vulnerable state. When they gave birth, Beelzebub cried the whole time—cried for the first time since becoming a demon. It felt as if the baby had clawed its way out of their body—and it felt as if their heart had been ripped to shreds. It was unnatural for a demon to love, to care about anyone or anything, but whatever happiness the prince had held onto, it had been stripped away.

They raised little Wrath in hatred and pain. Michael was bitter and resentful, and Beelzebub was tired and cheated. They loved Wrath, Michael was indifferent to him, and yet Wrath’s only affection was for Michael. It was entirely unfair.

Beelzebub let the resentment push them through their work—leading them to be harsher, crueler, more vicious toward their hoard of demons. Quotas increased, machines were broken just to add to the struggle of repairing them. Beelzebub had to have discorporated a thousand demons in their rage. 

They found out about Wrath becoming involved with Crowley’s daughter by accident and Michael seemed irritated that the prince was aware of her scheme at all. It sounded like a stupid idea and Beelzebub had told her so. It led to a fight in while Michael lost both her eyes and Beelzebub lost most of the fingers on their right hand.

It was fine though. It all grew back and no one mentioned the scheme around Beelzebub again until the night Antigone was invited to dinner.

Beelzebub was just happy to have an excuse to eat human food in Hell. Rare steak? Yes please. They would even break out their manners for it. Ice cream? Hell yes. Salad? Eh, fine, but cover it in dressing.

Yes, Michael had been happy to set her little, vicious scheme into motion and Beelzebub was happy to have steak. They hadn’t expected the girl to be so…vibrant.

Ah, yes. Vibrant seemed to be the proper word. All copper curls and fair skin, glowing blue eyes and shiny white teeth. Beelzebub had immediately thought ‘this girl looks good enough to eat.’ They had half a thought about presenting as something more respectable than a demon prince when Antigone sat at their table, but Michael’s constant criticisms of them left Beelzebub feeling so out of sorts—so utterly defeated that they didn’t even bother trying to be the slightest bit likable. 

What did it matter, anyway? The girl was supposed to drink her laced wine and pass out, be ravaged by all the demons laying in wait, and then tortured until Crowley came to her rescue and met his demise as well. That had been the plan.

So Beelzebub was pleased when Antigone ignored her wine and kept her wits about her. She was smart. She was clever and aware—far more intelligent than her low-cut dress implied. She was smarter than her father, at any rate.

And, Beelzebub couldn’t help but notice, was attracted to them. Oh, yes, Beelzebub could both smell it and taste it. Humans had lusted for them before the times they had gone above ground in the past, but never like this. Wrath was angered by it (Wrath was angered by literally everything), and Michael had resented it. 

By the time Antigone realized where she was and who she was with, Beelzebub couldn’t stand the thought of something happening to her. This child who barely knew up from down, too naïve to know not to trust demons, was showing so much kindness to them… 

“You seem upset, is all,” Antigone had been saying while Beelzebub hid in the kitchen, too…conflicted to interfere in Michael’s plans. A demon, even a prince, could get into a lot of trouble for doing the right thing. “Wrath’s told me you two fight a lot. If she’s mean to you, you know you could do better. You’re a prince and all. Surely you could go all Henry the Eighth and have her beheaded.”

“Child, you have no idea what you’re zzzzaying,” Beelzebub had said, their stupid buzzing lisp taking over their tongue. They resented it so much how the noise came out without their say-so, ruining the integrity of whatever point they tried to make.

They hated their buzzing so much, it incited Michael into fits of rage, and yet Antigone was there beaming at them every time it slipped out.

“Yezzz I do,” Antigone had said, her blue eyes filled with so much warmth and life and childlike joy. Beelzebub could have gotten lost in them if Michael hadn’t chosen that exact moment to strike.

A demon could get in a lot of trouble for doing the right thing… What they didn’t tell them was a demon could hate themselves for all eternity for doing the wrong thing, too.

“You’re really going to let them hurt her, aren’t You?” Beelzebub had asked the stale air of the kitchen. “You’re just going to stand there and let them rip her apart. There’s a reason I refused to worship You. If You were worthy of praise, You would do something to stop this.” It was the first time they had talked to God since before the Fall. Beelzebub had asked the same questions, thrown out the same accusations, over and over again as they heard Antigone start to scream someplace far off in their home. “You worthless thing…”

And that insult had been meant for themselves.

Beelzebub had no idea how Antigone had escaped Hell, or how she convinced her fathers not to come down to Hell seeking revenge. Michael had sent Wrath to finish the job. Wrath showed up a few hours later without a body…

Michael went up a few months later and…never came back. Somehow, Wrath found out it was Holy Water, what did her in. He swore he’d have vengeance, howled in rage for hours and days on end. Beelzebub quickly tired of hearing it and went up to Earth to see for themselves.

Or so they’d told those under them.

Really, Beelzebub went looking for the girl who had been nice to them and found her quite easily tempting men in a little seaside village. They had drinks and food together—well, Beelzebub ate their fill. They couldn’t remember if Antigone ate or not. They drank, maybe dined, then Beelzebub had chased her to the shore—fearing she would drown in the radioactive water. 

She did not drown, but she did splash around naked for a good thirty minutes before trying to run back ashore only to fall on her face. Beelzebub expected her to cry or scream, or show some sort of embarrassment at landing face-first in the muck, but Antigone just laughed harder and rolled around in it. She made a real mess of herself which Beelzebub felt compelled to magic away.

Somehow, the two of them ended up pressed together—Antigone still unclothed—their mouths working in unison. Antigone was far, far, far from being Beelzebub’s first temptation—human, demon, or otherwise. She was also not the first to tempt Beelzebub. 

It was their first time on a beach though and it was truly awful. Sand in all sorts of places… Places sand did not belong. Probably one of Beelzebub’s least favorite endeavors but with one of their new favorite people.

For some reason, Annie kept calling them a “lady.” They didn’t know if it was because Wrath referred to them both, Michael and Beelzebub, as mothers or if it were their looks that appeared feminine. Beelzebub didn’t see it themselves, but didn’t really mind. Antigone was a creature of Earth, and Earth had such an awful obsession with classifying things as either one type or another. Beelzebub, to their own satisfaction, was neither male nor female—but if Antigone preferred them as a woman, _she_ was more than happy to oblige. And if _she_ was lacking in something the young creature desired later, _he_ was happy to provide. Whatever pleased Antigone most, Beelzebub was content to offer. And it did feel much more sinful between two females than the standard female and male. Beelzebub supposed it couldn’t be helped. If Antigone were ever to ask Beelzebub if they were male or female, Beelzebub would simply tell her “I am I” and laugh at their own little joke.

So far, it hadn’t been an issue in their six months, one week, three days, two hours, and eleven minutes.

What was an issue was Crowley. He was functioning about as well as Beelzebub expected six months into his pregnancy with another twelve or more to go. The aura of the cottage was so toxic it made Beelzebub’s stomach sick and they couldn’t understand why Annie wanted to be here of all places. 

The angel was busying himself in the nursery, hanging up green curtains he didn’t like because they were what Crowley wanted in contrast to the blue-purple walls. Beelzebub was sitting in Annie’s room which shared a wall with her fathers’ bathroom—putting it too close for comfort, as far as Beelzebub was concerned, to Crowley.

His aura was positively awful. Dreadful. Sickening. 

Beelzebub could feel him weeping and felt the overwhelming desire to go into that room and hit him until he knocked it off. 

They wouldn’t do that though. Annie wouldn’t like it and there was a good chance he’d turn serpent and discorporate them—and possibly injure the baby. The angel would finish them off if they caused Crowley to hurt the baby. Beelzebub had no doubts about that.

“I wish there was something I could do,” Annie said, for the hundredth time, with a heavy sigh. “He’s so miserable.”

“I already told you once. He’ll take all the love you have and feel none of it. You can’t fix him. Leave him to himself until he gets over it.”

“You would say that… Vicious thing,” Annie said, not liking the answer, no matter how true of a statement it was. She had to have seen it for herself by now. Crowley would throw a fit the very second one of them tried to leave his side, no matter what the reason, and would cling the moment they came back. No amount of kind words or kisses or hugs kept him quiet when his daughter or his angel tried to get on with their lives in some other part of the house. Nothing was enough.

“It’s true. He’s going to exhaust you both. The angel’s already frustrated.”

“Papa is just worried about the baby. Dada’s not even _showing_ yet… he thinks there’s something wrong.”

“He’s not showing because he has no internal organs to strain against. You do know this, yes? Our bodies have only what we want them to. I don’t need six meters of intestines coiled up in my guts. Neither does he. We don’t have hearts, kidneys, bladders, livers—what use do we have for those? Stomach, yes. Tongue, yes. Lungs, maybe. The rest just gets in the way.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” Annie said, collapsing back on her bed with her pillow clutched to her chest.

“Oh, don’t be dramatic. Do you want me to go and talk to him? Demon to demon? Make sure he’s alright?”

“Dada would throw a fit to see you.”

“Good, might wake him up,” Beelzebub said, then made their way to Antigone’s bedroom door. She didn’t say a word to stop them, so Beelzebub continued on. The angel either didn’t hear or didn’t notice when Beelzebub opened the door to the bedroom where Crowley lay in a bleeding heap of sheets and feathers and pillows. “Well your nest is disgusting,” they said, closing the door behind them. 

The aura was even worse in here. It felt as if Beelzebub had settled down into the very bottom of the lake of sulfur—burning and crushing from the pressure overhead. 

Crowley’s blood-crusted eyes snapped open and he glared at them, shuffling backwards like a feral animal in fear. His wings were an absolute mess, clumps of feathers falling out each time he moved them. He had blood running down from his eyes that Beelzebub learned were his tears. Annie had cried in front of them once (absolutely drunk) and said it hurt terribly. Serves him right, Beelzebub thought. Demons weren’t meant to cry and here he was carrying on with it.

“Do you like sleeping in your own filth? You’ve got blood all over everything.”

“What do you want?” He hissed, trying to move into a position that made him look threatening. 

“Antigone wanted me to check on you. She’d come in herself, but you throw a fit every time she tries to leave. You know, they have lives outside of you.”

A shiver ran through Crowley’s body, one of pain and immense sorrow, and Beelzebub almost felt bad for causing it.

“So, how far along is it?” Beelzebub asked.

“I don’t know,” Crowley hissed.

“Boy or a girl?”

“I don’t _know,”_ he hissed again. 

He did know. He could feel all of these things, but he wasn’t telling Beelzebub about any of it. It made them smile.

“Any names?”

“I don’t know; ask the angel. It’s his to decide.”

“The angel? And how are we feeling about the angel these days?” Beelzebub asked, still grinning. _Your fairy tale didn’t play out the way you expected, now did it, Crowley,_ they thought to themselves. No happy ending here, for sure.

Crowley gave no reply except another shiver.

“That bad? Guess it makes sense. No one can love a demon, Crowley. It’s our curse. Not even that little thing growing inside you.”

Three tears of blood fell quickly from Crowley’s eyes and he dropped his gaze to the blankets beneath him. 

Not even a second later, the bedroom door was thrown open by the angel who was absolutely glowing with divine rage. A single touch of his hand would’ve burnt Beelzebub’s skin to a crisp.

“Out! You get out! Right now!” The angel snapped.

Beelzebub looked to Crowley who was hunched in on himself and shrugged.

“Looks like I was wrong. Imagine that. How lucky you are to have an angel to love you.”

“Out!” The angel roared. “You leave him alone! If I catch you in here again, I will not hesitate to bring the wrath of Heaven upon you!”

“I’m leaving—I’m leaving,” Beelzebub said, carefully avoiding the angel as they made their way toward the door. It slammed behind them the instant they were gone and the angel was fast to comfort its pet demon.

“Don’t listen to her. She’s just a wicked creature. Of course I love you, my darling. I’m right here. I’m staying right here until she’s gone—”

The voices faded away as Beelzebub went back into Annie’s room, getting struck with a pillow the very instant they did.

“What did you do?” Annie snapped.

“I woke him up. He’s in there feeling sorry for himself, might as well have some fun with it. It’s fine. It got that angel in there patching him up. It’s all he wants. And listen… He’s not crying anymore, now is he?” Beelzebub shrugged and Annie continued glowering at them.

“You’re wicked.”

“You love me for it,” Beelzebub said in the same accusatory tone. 

“Don’t make my father cry. I wouldn’t have let you in there if I knew you were planning to torment him!”

“You thought I was about to climb into his nest and read him a story? Kiss his forehead and make it better? That little snake ruined my apocalypse and still hasn’t gone back to work procuring souls for _my_ boss. I owe nothing to him.”

“Well, he’s my father and if you want to keep seeing me, you’ll be decent to him!” 

Beelzebub had taught Annie well not to call them nice or ask them to be nice.

“I got him what he wanted. Not sure why you’re angry with me.”

“Beelz, he’s sensitive right now and you made it worse. What did you say to make his aura go so dark?”

Perhaps it had been a touch cruel to say his baby wouldn’t love him… 

“It doesn’t matter,” Beelzebub said, sitting down on the floor. Sitting beside Annie on the bed was too risky. When she was mad, she took closeness as a threat and would inevitably deem sex off the table for an undisclosed amount of time as punishment. “He’ll have forgotten by tomorrow.”

“He’d better,” Annie hissed.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Slight suicidal ideation from Crowley at start of this chapter. He gets better.

Crowley did not get better. 

He got worse and worse until even speaking became strenuous. One morning, he’d laid in bed and had the realization that Aziraphale didn’t want to talk to him—that he was burdening him with each word he expelled. Every request for tea, for fresh sheets, for that healing grace that fixed him for only a moment before throwing him back into his bottomless pit of despair. 

Crowley would open his mouth to talk, and tears would fall in place of words. 

“What is it, my darling?” Aziraphale would ask him, sounding exhausted and strained. He was exhausted and his patience worn thin because Crowley demanded too much. Crowley asked too much of him and the angel hated him now.

Annie couldn’t stand to be near him because he held her too tightly and now Aziraphale, too, had forsaken his love for Crowley. 

Crowley longed for tea—mint tea for a change, instead of chamomile—but couldn’t bring himself to ask. He wanted eggs to swallow whole, but wouldn’t voice it. He wanted a clean blanket and couldn’t beg for it. 

“What do you want, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked when Crowley grabbed his hand as he tried to leave the bed, leave him.

 _Stay, stay, stay…_ Crowley chanted in his mind, but didn’t dare speak. He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand, then let it go and watched the angel leave. _Please come back. Please come back, Angel. Please come back._

But he didn’t. He wouldn’t. He had better things to do than sit around reading in a bed full of blood and feathers. Crowley had let himself become so disgusting it was no wonder Aziraphale hated him. 

He was just around until the baby came out… Then he would take it, wait a polite amount of time, and ask Crowley to leave.

Crowley was sure of it. 

What would he do then? Go back to working for Beelzebub, he supposed… Spend eternity alone, away from his children who wouldn’t care regardless. 

Or he could give birth, crawl into the ocean, and wait for the radiation to discorporate him. 

That seemed like the better option. His other options included getting more Holy Water and drinking it. That sounded just about as appealing. At least then he wouldn’t be coming back…

Somewhere in the cottage, he could hear Aziraphale and Annie laughing together. He wanted so desperately to be a part of it, but he was trapped upstairs in his bed. His body felt impossibly heavy, his head swaying almost uselessly whenever he tried to sit up. He wanted to turn serpent, but was afraid it would hurt the baby. Aziraphale had strongly cautioned him against it and knew if he took the risk and it did prove lethal, the angel would never forgive him.

His love, Crowley supposed he could live without—but to have the angel truly hate him, that would be torture. 

Annie gave a particularly shrill laugh and Crowley whined into the pillow beneath his head. He wanted to be nearer to them. He wanted to be downstairs… Whenever he went down there, though, Aziraphale always had to help him back upstairs when he grew restless or when his tears had stained every bit of fabric on their couch. 

He was such a useless, filthy mess. They didn’t want him down there, spoiling their good time with his depressing state of being. Crowley honestly felt, some days, that he would do better to crawl outside into the garden and lay in the grass. Let it rain on him. Let snow pile up on him… let bugs crawl on him. Let him lay there and rot until the baby came. He’d leave it on the front step and slither away into the sea.

Aziraphale would be happy the whole ordeal was over. Annie would be happy she had a new sibling…

And their burden would be gone forever.

Downstairs, he heard Aziraphale laughing and couldn’t stand the way his heart leapt at the sound of it. He couldn’t help himself… The next thing Crowley knew, he was crawling off the bed on all fours, using his wings to help balance him as he clawed his way to the bedroom door and opened it. He didn’t want to be up here alone. He wanted so, so badly to be part of their family again—to be included and wanted and loved like he used to be.

Maybe if he showed initiative. Maybe if he tried… 

Crowley pulled himself painfully up onto his feet and stepped out into the hallway, using the wall to brace himself.

“Oh, my dear, Annie! You should’ve seen him back then! Head to toe in back—and his hair, oh it wasn’t even the style back then but it really was quite charming.”

“Sunglasses still?”

“He’s had those since Rome! If you’d believe it, Annie. Oh, he was remarkable.”

Him! They were talking about him—speaking favorably of him! Maybe they didn’t hate him. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he’d misunderstood!

Crowley hobbled toward the stairs, breathing hard as he summoned the willpower necessary to begin his descent. 

“So he uses his magic and swaps the shackles from me to that rather rude guard and we went to lunch!”

“And you didn’t get re-arrested a moment later?”

“Ugh… No. Your father made me change. I traded outfits with the guard… I made it through lunch and popped back to England right away to change. He came with me. Said he had to make sure I got home safely. I think… Yes, I think that must’ve constituted the first ‘date,’ if you really have to call it that. He paid for the crepes, anyway.”

Crowley was halfway down the stairs when Aziraphale finished his telling of the story. Crowley had a lot he wished to add, was thinking back to that day fondly and shaking his head. Aziraphale had been the one who looked ridiculous—dressed like a nobleman in a country that hated nobles. Maybe this would be his chance to return to his family, to go back to being an active member instead of the shameful secret kept locked up in the cottage bedroom.

His heart felt as if it were racing as he listened to Annie ask a question. He wanted to answer—he had an answer!

Halfway down the steps, Crowley’s ankle gave out beneath him. He felt himself drop, felt his heart seize in his chest as he scrambled for the banister. His wings began beating uselessly as he tumbled forward, whimpering helplessly as he slammed into the floor. He felt his ankle crack, felt his right wing catch on the banister he’d attempted to grab and snap. Pain rocketed through him as he gripped his stomach, feeling the little thrum of life continue strong in his belly as he reeled on the floor. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale shouted, coming into the room with Annie close behind him. Crowley looked up at him, then immediately ducked his head when he saw how much anger was in the angel’s face. “Are you alright? Good Lord! What were you thinking!? Why didn’t you call for me?” Aziraphale knelt beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder and rubbing it gently. 

Crowley wanted to talk, but suddenly remembered why he didn’t—why he couldn’t. Burden, burden… He was a burden. Aziraphale didn’t want to hear what he had to say. Aziraphale didn’t want him downstairs, intruding.

“Oh… Oh, my love. Your wing. Okay—Okay, hold still. I’ll fix it.”

Crowley kept his head down as Aziraphale stroked his wing gently until focusing his energy to slowly, agonizingly crack the bone back into place and heal it. It hurt so badly, especially in combination with his aching, broken ankle. When Aziraphale had finished healing his wing, the angel was panting loudly in exertion. It took so much strain for him to heal Crowley’s cursed form… Crowley felt sick as he realized that.

“Are you hurt anywhere else? How far did you fall? Is the baby—”

“’S fine,” Crowley choked out. “Sorry. S-Sorry… Wanted to...see you.”

“You could’ve called for me! I would’ve helped you downstairs. Now look at what you’ve done to yourself...” 

Shame devoured him, left him sinking into himself on the floor—his ankle still sending bolts of pain through his body. He couldn’t concentrate to heal it. He couldn’t ground his scattered mind to focus on anything other than his pain and fear and humiliation. 

What must he look like to them? All bloody tears and patchy wings… He looked nothing like himself. He felt nothing like himself. It wasn’t so unreasonable to think that his family hated this version of him too.

“Dada, are you alright?”

“He’s fine, Annie,” Aziraphale answered on his behalf. “Do you want to go to the couch, dear?” 

“G-Gonna go to bed. Gonna go back to bed,” Crowley said, scrambling backwards for the stairs and trying to crawl away while careful to keep his broken ankle from supporting any weight.

“Papa, his foot!” Annie called, bringing attention to Crowley’s broken ankle. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale snapped. “Stop moving! Where else are you hurt!?”

He felt like an animal, unable to communicate—unable to contain himself. He was whining and clawing at the stairs while Aziraphale fixed his ankle. 

“Hold still. Let me feel the baby,” Aziraphale said, his fist closing thoughtlessly around the base of Crowley’s left wing to stop him when he tried to crawl forward again. 

Crowley’s whole body stiffened in fear, his mind conjuring up vicious memories. He was effectively frozen. He was too afraid to even cry. It was a threat. Aziraphale was going to tear his wing off if he so much as twitched. 

So he held absolutely still as the angel pressed a hand against his abdomen. 

Once Aziraphale was certain that his baby was fine, he let go of Crowley who hesitated only a moment before tearing his way up the stairs and crawling into their bedroom—back into his nest of filthy blankets and shed feathers. 

Crowley felt his chest hitch with sobs and buried his face in the blankets. He felt the hatred, the absolute rejection and detestation coming from his angel—the angel he loved more than anyone, more than anything. He loved Aziraphale so, so much and the angel had threatened to tear off his wing. 

Aziraphale knew how much they meant to him!

If he hated them so much, why did he ever make Crowley think he liked them? Why did he give his feathers so Crowley could have that same wing he’d threatened to rip? Why did he preen for him? Why did he go through so many motions to make Crowley think they were worthy of being touched, preened by the angel?

If Crowley had the strength, he’d reach back and tear out every feather he could. He’d tear them to shreds. He’d rip himself apart if it would make Aziraphale want him again. 

“My love? What’s wrong? Please, Crowley—please! I’m right here. I’m here, my love. What is it?” Aziraphale was suddenly with him, stroking his hair and pressing kiss after kiss to his temple and ear—whatever he could reach while Crowley screamed into the blankets. “Was it the wing? Are you okay?”

All at once, Aziraphale’s hand closed around the back of his head—almost squeezing it. Crowley stiffened, expecting the touch to turn violent—expecting the angel to grab his wing and yank it.

Instead, a slow warmth spread through him, taking out all of the tension and pain in his body. He fell lax against the bed, rolling onto his side as his wings tucked themselves away. Aziraphale’s hand stroked his cheek, continuing that warm, healing grace. 

“There now… Calm down. It’s okay. I’m here. I’m right here...”

( ) ( ) ( )

Aziraphale was at an utter loss. He felt helpless. He prayed and prayed and received no guidance, no answers. Crowley was a mess. Crowley was _falling apart,_ and nothing Aziraphale did consoled him except his grace. His holy grace which should’ve caused Crowley pain seemed to be the only thing that halted whatever awful thing was overcoming him. 

If Aziraphale could just hold him forever and keep that pure, holy light on him, he would. But it drained so much of his strength and he could only manage for a handful of minutes at a time. It served to calm Crowley down, but as soon as he stopped, the life he’d just watched come back faded away. 

Crowley had just stopped sobbing and now resumed the instant his grace was taken away. 

“What is it, my love? What’s wrong?” Aziraphale asked, petting Crowley’s hair. 

“I just want you to love me,” Crowley sobbed, grabbing his hand and holding it tightly. 

“I do! My darling—you poor thing. You must know that. You know that I love you. I adore you, Crowley. I love you more than the world.”

“J-Just for th-the baby,” Crowley whimpered out. “Y-You can t-take it. Just love me again.”

“I do love you! Not just for the baby! Please don’t think that… I only checked because you panicked. You panicked, Crowley. You didn’t tell me you’d hurt your ankle and I was afraid something else had happened. I had to make sure… Please don’t think it means I love you any less. I was just as worried for you as the baby, my darling. I love you. I love you, Crowley.”

Crowley was latched onto his chest, crying and snuggling him while Aziraphale held him and kissed the top of his head. They stayed that way for at least three hours and Crowley’s crying hardly settled. Aziraphale could feel the pain coming off the demon in waves. He was sad and frightened and Aziraphale just didn’t know why. He tried kissing him, tried hugging him, tried telling him he loved him—it just didn’t stop. 

Crowley wouldn’t stop. 

“Would you like me to preen for you, my love?” Aziraphale offered, only to have Crowley shudder in what felt like absolute revulsion. “We could take a bath… I would like that, darling. Would you want to come take a bath with me? We can relax together. Spend some time together...”

Crowley squeezed him tighter and gave a minuscule nod against his chest. 

Knowing better than to leave Crowley’s side to ready the bath, Aziraphale pulled them both onto their feet. He kept an arm around Crowley’s waist to support him as they went into the bathroom. He readied the bath while Crowley sat curled up on the floor. Aziraphale got the water just slightly hotter than he preferred, knowing Crowley liked it hot, then added bubbles and a generous splash of lavender oil. 

By the time the tub was ready, Crowley was shivering on the floor and staring off into space. It was honestly as if he thought Aziraphale had abandoned him the very instant they stopped touching. 

“Come, darling. It’s ready.” Aziraphale began to undress, but had to miracle Crowley’s clothes away because the demon’s hands were shaking too hard for him to unbutton his shirt. “Come here, darling.” 

It took some effort, but eventually Aziraphale got them both situated in the tub. He had Crowley leaned back against his chest, his head resting on Aziraphale’s shoulder while his eyes slipped closed as if he expected to fall asleep. Aziraphale miracled for a cloth and wetted it in the soapy water before lifting it to wash away the blood on Crowley’s cheeks. 

“We should do this more often, don’t you think?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley’s answer was a quiet coo. 

“How are you feeling, my love?” Aziraphale asked, washing Crowley’s neck and shoulders.

“’S nice. Thisss feels nice,” Crowley hissed, sounding so much like his serpent self that Aziraphale was afraid he might transform. 

“We should do this more. Maybe...once a week. We could do this every week! Try different scents. We can have tea—”

“’S wine. You’re ssssupposed to have wine with your bathsss,” Crowley hissed, wriggling back against Aziraphale’s chest. 

“I can’t let you have that right now, I’m afraid. Maybe some iced tea?”

“Yesss. Every week? You’d really want that?” Crowley asked, his eyes opening half way as he glanced up for reassurance.

“I think we could make that happen. It would be nice. A little excuse to get you undressed,” Aziraphale attempted. It had the desired effect of getting a smirk to twist Crowley’s mouth. 

“Don’t need an excuse for that. Jussst have to ask,” he said, cooing against and leaning back more heavily as Aziraphale began washing his chest. “Probably shouldn’t try anything now… Don’t think I could handle having twins.”

“I don’t think I’m ready for that either,” Aziraphale said, kissing the top of Crowley’s head. “Any new ideas for names, my love?”

“’S up to you. I picked the lassst one.”

“No, no. I want you to help. You’re going to be the mother—you get to choose.” 

Crowley laughed, a sad, forced chuckle, and played around with the bubbles by his bent knees. 

“So? Any ideas?” Aziraphale asked, scrubbing Crowley’s shoulders and back where he could reach while the demon purred. 

“I like...Constantine,” Crowley mumbled.

“Oh! Oh, I do like that! Constantine. Antigone and Constantine.”

“What did you think of?” Crowley asked.

“I rather liked Aelius… William. Demetrius?”

“Rather hooked on Roman names, my angel?” Crowley asked, purring softly while Aziraphale began washing his stomach. 

“I’d like their names to match. It would be odd to have Antigone and then…Steven. Wouldn’t you think? And I can’t exactly choose biblical names.”

“You could, if you needed,” Crowley said.

“Darling, no. We’re not doing that. You know… I really like Constantine. I think you have a way with baby names.”

Crowley’s aura finally seemed to lose some of its distress and he sank further into the bubbles. 

“What would you name a girl if we were having another little girl?” Aziraphale asked.

“Hn… I don’t know. We’re not having a little girl. Are we?”

“I don’t think so. We can always ask Sandalphon,” Aziraphale asked, chuckling. 

“I don’t think I can have another after this one, Angel,” Crowley said, suddenly sounding tearful. In a matter of seconds, drops of blood were splashing into the tub from Crowley’s cheeks. “I don’t feel right. I feel so...so awful. I want to make you happy, but… It’s not working.”

“I _am_ happy, darling. I love you so much. I only wish I could take your pain away. I hate seeing you so upset. If I’d known it would hurt you so much, I never would’ve let you go through this.”

“Will you still want me after it’s over?” Crowley asked. 

“Of course, my love! I can’t wait to raise another baby with you. You were so great with Annie. I promise, once the baby gets here, it’ll all be worth it. I’ll take care of you every step. You know that, yes?”

“Do you really think I was good with Annie?”

“Yes! Annie adores you! You were—”

“A serpent for months on end…”

“My darling, we all have our moments.”

“You don’t.”

“I do,” Aziraphale said, kissing Crowley on the cheek and then washing the tears of blood away with the wash cloth. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. I hate seeing you so upset.”

Crowley sank down in the tub a little further, sighing as Aziraphale began washing his hair. 

“Love you, Angel.”

“I love you, too, my dear. So very much. You know that, right?” Aziraphale had began feeling optimistic, but the long pause between his question and Crowley’s answer zapped that hope. 

“Of course, Angel. I love you, Angel.”

“I love you, too.” Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley’s chest and squeezed him tight. “I’m so sorry, Crowley. I wish I could help you. I wish I could heal you.”

They stayed in the tub at least an hour or two, Aziraphale occasionally miracling the water to keep it warm. By the end of it, Crowley was half asleep on Aziraphale’s chest—quiet and calm.

( ) ( ) ( )

It was hard feeling so dependent, so needy and useless. His body ached, his very existence had become a dull, throbbing pain that left him constantly on the verge of tears. He lived only for the moments Aziraphale spent with him—those few, fleeting hours or a full day or two here and there. Aziraphale would pet his hair or read to him, or sometimes use his bittersweet grace to zap the agony from his soul for a handful of minutes. It felt so lovely to have that dark cloud lifted from him, to see a beam of light cutting through the storm clouds to bring him safely to shore.

But as soon as the light faded away, it was ten times worse—no, a hundred times worse—coming back down. He felt, for a brief moment, all the love he had been missing, been craving. He felt it, could almost hold it in his hands, and then it was torn away and he was left in the darkness. Lost and alone. 

What made it worse, too, was that the stomach pains had returned. Now they were sharp bolts of agony that tore through his entire spine. The first woke him from his already troubled slumber nearly a week ago. The pains had been few and far between and he thought maybe he’d slept wrong and angered the baby. It had grown larger now, prone to kicking his little feet and doing flips that made Crowley want to vomit if he’d ever had anything to eat. 

Then the pain had become almost unbearably constant. Crowley was left panting for breaths he didn’t need and sweating into the blankets and sheets he surrounded himself with. He tried not to complain to his angel, already knowing he was too great a burden for Aziraphale to bear. He tried to put on a brave face and tough it out on his own. He really didn’t want to cause any more trouble. 

But it hurt. It hurt so, so badly and he didn’t want Aziraphale to leave. He had climbed out of the bed, which he had now begun calling Crowley’s ‘nest’ because of all the shed feathers littering it, and was putting on a different suit than he normally wore. It was more modern with sleeker lines and it made Crowley unbearably nervous. 

“I’ll be back in just a couple of hours, dear,” he said, straightening his unusually blue bow tie. It was the same color as his eyes and Crowley wanted to compliment it, but ever since the pain had started those two weeks ago, he’d only been able to hiss. He couldn’t get his tongue to return to normal. Couldn’t get his fangs to turn back into teeth. He couldn’t form words, only soft, useless hisses that Aziraphale couldn’t understand. “Just going out for lunch with Annie and…well, _you know who.”_

Beelzebub. Antigone was spending all her time with Beelzebub and now the angel was, too. Never mind the fact that Beelzebub would’ve had Crowley executed if he could. Never mind the fact that Beelzebub had tortured him, previously, in Hell. Never mind the fact that Beelzebub was wicked and vile and mean and heartless… They all wanted to spend time with him. They would rather be out with Beelzebub than be anywhere near Crowley. He was too clingy, too needy, too useless…too disgusting in this state to be around.

“Oh, don’t cry, my love! It’s only for a couple of hours. Then I’ll be right back here and we can…read together, or something.” The angel’s expression looked revolted at the thought and Crowley could only let out a choked whine of pain as his response. “I’m sorry, my love. I know this is hard… But I’ll be back before you know it. Do you need anything before I go?”

Wave after wave of constant pain was slicing through his abdomen, and Aziraphale was going to leave him here to suffer alone. 

Crowley wanted to beg him to stay, wanted to plead—apologize for every single other time he’d ever made Aziraphale stay in his nest longer than he wanted, because he really, _really_ didn’t want to be left alone like this. 

He tried to speak, he tried so, so hard. All that came out was a long, desperate hiss and more tears which burned like acid. 

“Calm down, now, my love. It’s only a couple of hours. Just to get something to eat.”

Crowley felt another sharp stab of pain tear through his spine and he sobbed.

“You’ll be alright, Crowley. I just…want to go out for a little while. Alright? I’ll be back before you know it. I won’t even stay for dessert.”

To Crowley, it was as if the world were ending all around him. Aziraphale resented him so much he’d rather leave him here alone to go spend time with Beelzebub. The angel who knew just exactly how wicked that monster was, would rather be with him than just lay at Crowley’s side and help him through this pain. This awful, wretched pain that was hardly worth it.

He loved his baby, but he didn’t know how much more he could take before discorporating became the better option. Aziraphale would be so disappointed in him, though, if he died before giving birth to his child. The baby, it was now so clearly obvious, was all Aziraphale wanted out of him. The baby would come and Crowley would be old news. Worthless trash…probably not even worth saving if something were to go wrong.

He could see it so clearly, as if it were happening to him now. He would give birth, start to die, and Aziraphale would just take the baby and carry it off somewhere. Crowley would never even get to see it. He’d bleed out and discorporate all alone, then be cast back down to Hell for Beelzebub to finish off.

Crowley was having a kiss pressed onto the corner of his mouth, but before he could respond—either kiss back or try to latch on to his angel and keep him from leaving as he’d done so many times in the past eighteen months—Aziraphale was saying goodbye and had left. 

Another bolt of pain ripped through him and Crowley didn’t bother trying to suppress his scream. No one heard him. No one was home to concern themselves with his plight. 

He fell back against his pillows and moaned in agony. The shockwaves had become constant, and all at once Crowley felt his abdomen give a horrifying clench. 

His entire mind was whited out with pain and a single, mortifying thought.

Labor. 

This is labor. 

Crowley opened his mouth to scream for Aziraphale, desperately hoping the angel might hear him even from blocks or cities away, but all that came out was a loud hissing noise. He could scream and he could hiss, but he couldn’t beg for help. He couldn’t even call an ambulance if he’d wanted—not that a paramedic would be of much use to him now. 

Aziraphale promised he’d be here. He said he’d be there every step of the way.

He promised! He promised, he promised!

Crowley didn’t know what he’d done to make the angel hate him so much, but he was sorry. He was sorry he ever asked for more. He was sorry for crashing into his bookshop with broken wings. He was sorry they’d ever crossed paths in Eden. God, he was so fucking sorry he tempted him that night in the shower.

Blindly, Crowley began dragging himself toward the edge of the bed—his brain shutting down as fear and pain crippled him.

Couldn’t be in the nest. Couldn’t make a mess. The angel hated messes. The angel hated _him._

Crowley crawled and dragged and pulled himself across the floor of the bedroom and found himself falling into the bathtub, ripping down the shower curtain with him as he tumbled. 

Falling. He was Falling. The air had become too hot to breathe, his head was spinning, and he couldn’t see. Everything was too bright, piercing through his retinas until he’d covered both his eyes with his hands. 

The angel _promised_ he’d be here! 

What if something went wrong!? 

Crowley’s abdomen gave another fierce contraction and all he could do was scream and claw at his hair. 

Push. He was supposed to push, right? 

Maybe if he did this—maybe if he made it through this on his own, the angel would come back and would Forgive him. Maybe the angel would come back and Love him if he could prove capable of doing this alone. 

The angel might—

Another horrible rip of pain.

The angel might be happy with him. The angel might say he did well. The angel might Forgive—

Crowley screamed in utter horror and started to push. 

What if something went wrong? How was he going to explain if the baby didn’t—

Crowley screamed louder, longer and pushed again. He felt himself ripping open and couldn’t muster the energy to miracle himself better or make the process easier. 

All he knew in the entire world was that he needed to push and there was supposed to be someone, he couldn’t place who but someone, holding his hand yet there wasn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, friends! Sorry for the whump! I didn't plan to make this so whumpy, but where there's a will, there's a whump. I wanted to give a heads up for the next chapter--there's no on-screen birth but there is on-screen whump surrounding it. (I just don't feel comfortable writing a traumatic birth when I have no business writing such things.) In the next chapter there is a Trigger Warning for birth-related trauma and fears of stillbirth. (Spoiler/not spoiler--baby makes it to the world A-Ok! Crowley on the other hand...is full of whump.)
> 
> Please bear with me on this bumpy ride--I promise there's a plot buried in here somewhere.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! The first half of this chapter is very upsetting! I wanted to give you a heads-up regarding Crowley's mental state and it's current deterioration. (I promise he gets better within this chapter--at least, in a way. It's a plot point. You'll see.) 
> 
> Slight spoiler warning but I don't want to trigger anyone with any childbirth/birth related PTSD or trauma. The chapter scene is in Aziraphale's POV and also Beelzebub's, reflecting on their interpretation of Crowley's trauma with a line of Crowley's own panicked, internal monologue mixed in. He does believe the baby is a still birth, but it is not! Baby arrive A-OK but in a Very Weird Way--because this whole damn fic is weird AF and I apologize. I didn't realize how weird I was until this fic started happening. So sorry.

The oppressive aura was gone, Aziraphale realized with a start. He was expecting to come home and go right upstairs to Crowley’s nest with some chamomile tea, but a cold ball of dread had sunk deep into the pit of his stomach. 

“What is it?” Annie asked, wondering why her father didn’t open the door when they arrived.

Beelzebub, behind Antigone on the steps, took a deep breath through her nose—sniffing the air.

“Oh… Oh, I see,” the demon said.

“What?” Annie asked.

“Crowley,” was all Aziraphale could force out before he pushed open the door and ran up the staircase. He threw open the bedroom door and was met with an empty nest—a bed full of bloodied sheets and feathers, but no demon. 

That aura was completely and utterly gone, and so was Crowley. 

“Crowley? Darling?” Aziraphale called, his voice shaking. 

“Papa? What’s happening?” Annie burst into the bedroom and immediately brought her hands up to cover her mouth when she noticed her other father missing. “Where—”

“Go and look downstairs,” Aziraphale said, hurrying to the other side of the bed where he’d hoped to find Crowley on the floor, having fallen over the edge by accident, maybe unconscious. He wasn’t there, but a trail of blood led into the bathroom. “Keep that demon occupied,” he said when Annie’s eyes fell on the trail as well. “Stay.”

Once Annie was gone, Aziraphale closed the bedroom door and walked carefully into the bathroom. The lights were off and his hands shook as he flipped the switch. The silence in the room was pierced for only a moment by a loud, hollow thud, and Aziraphale’s eyes landed on the bathtub where there shower curtain rod had both been ripped down. Crowley lay, half on his side, in the basin of the tub. His patchy wings were out and crammed into the tub as well—broken feathers scattered everywhere. Crowley’s arms were crossed over his head as if he feared being attacked, his legs still splayed open in the tub with blood covering his thighs…

Crowley was shivering, but silent.

The baby…

Aziraphale had never hated himself more than he did in this moment. 

There were no sounds from the baby—no cries or whimpers—and Aziraphale was afraid to step any closer so that he might be able to see it over the rim of the tub. 

Crowley was in shock, clearly not functioning or capable of tending to a newborn—and had been left alone when he delivered. 

Aziraphale hated himself. Oh, how much he hated himself.

With a shaking breath, Aziraphale moved closer to look into the tub. What he saw looked nothing like a baby—at least not in the human sense. There was a large oval, not quite an egg and not quite a newborn, smeared in blood. Aziraphale steeled himself, then reached down slowly, checking Crowley every few seconds to make sure he didn’t snap or jerk in a way that might cause him to hit the baby.

As soon as he touched it, Aziraphale could feel the pulse of life coursing through it and shed several tears in relief. 

Alive. It was still alive. They could mend this. 

He cradled the soft, clear egg, disregarding his suit as it was marred with blood, and set it into the bathroom sink. He gently rinsed it with warm water, noting quickly how, once it was clean, it looked more and more like a fetus in utero than simply a mass of blood and flesh. It was inside a clear egg of some sort—a sac that he wasn’t sure if he were meant to puncture or not. The baby’s eyes were closed, but its pulse continued strong and unrelenting. 

For the moment, Aziraphale turned off the water and left the little thing where it was in the sink so he could kneel down beside Crowley. He was still trembling, but otherwise had not moved.

“Crowley, my love?” Aziraphale attempted, placing a gentle hand on one of the arms Crowley had crossed protectively over his head. The demon flinched violently and cracked the back of his head on the tub. “Shh—Sh, my darling! Crowley, my dear—my love. I’m so sorry, my love. I’m here. I’m here now,” he said, smoothing his hand up and down Crowley’s arm until the demon finally lowered it. “Are you alright? My love?”

Crowley’s face was streaked red with his tears, and looked so haunted and afraid. He was staring at the wall on the opposite side of the tub and began letting out tiny, pained whimpers. 

“Let me heal you, my darling. It’s okay. You did perfect, my love. You were so good, Crowley. I love you so much,” Aziraphale said, feeling helpless as he pressed a kiss to Crowley’s matted hair and reached down to heal the space between his legs. 

Crowley recoiled from him and shot him a look so full of terror and surprise, Aziraphale wondered if Crowley had even realized he was in the room until this very moment.

“There you are. That feels better, right?”

“B-Baby—I-I… I-I didn’t—”

“It’s okay,” Aziraphale said, stroking Crowley’s hair and pressing another kiss to the top of his head before the demon shoved him away. It hurt, but Aziraphale felt he deserved that and more for what he’d done. He hadn’t realized he would be due—or that he’d even gone into labor. He never would’ve left had he known it was the time.

Oh, hell. He shouldn’t have gone regardless, no matter how exhausted he’d been under the weight of that oppressive aura.

But why didn’t Crowley just tell him? He had to have realized he was in labor, right?

“Th-the b-baby. I-I c-couldn’t…”

“You did wonderful—you were perfect. Everything’s alright now.”

“He died,” Crowley choked, covering his head with his arms again and letting out a scream as if Aziraphale had just gotten through beating him.

“No! Crowley, no! No, my darling! My love—please! Please, calm down! No—Shh. Please!” Aziraphale tried to get him to lower his arms, tried consoling him, tried petting his wings only to have every feather he touched fall out on contact. 

All he could think to do was carefully scoop up the little see-through egg in the sink and bring it to Crowley. That, as it turned out, was probably the worst thing he could’ve done.

( ) ( ) ( )

Upstairs, Crowley gave out the most ear-splitting demonic screech Beelzebub had ever heard—and they had heard a lot of them. Specialized in them, really. It was a noise of utter terror and anguish and the angel’s frantic voice was quick to follow.

Annie, sitting beside Beelzebub on the couch, had been quietly sobbing since they got home to find out her father had gone into labor by himself. It was better that way, Beelzebub tried to tell her. It was better he go through it alone and not hurt someone than it would’ve been to have her or the angel hovering around to get clawed to pieces or bitten because Crowley was out of his mind.

“Something’s wrong,” Annie was crying. “Something’s wrong. I can’t feel anything. I can’t feel anything at all. I can’t even feel Papa’s love and he loves everything. Something’s wrong.”

“It’ll be alright. Just be patient,” Beelzebub said, really awful at this business of comforting. Crowley was being a giant pansy, the angel was panicking, and somewhere in the house was a baby not fully in their plane of existence just yet. 

It went on for another ten minutes or so before Beelzebub got to their feet. There was a loud, frantic crashing noise upstairs, followed by Crowley’s tattered voice screaming on and on for forgiveness. Beelzebub had no idea what was going on, whether the stupid snake was reliving his Fall or if he’d simply lost his mind all together, but they were sick of hearing Annie cry over it.

“What are you doing?”

“They need help,” Beelzebub said, matter-of-factly. 

“You can’t go up there! Don’t go up there!” She tried to stop them, but one cold, stern look from Beelzebub left the girl seated on the couch, frozen.

“I’ll be back in a minute. I promise everything will be fine. Do you trust me?” Beelzebub asked.

Annie nodded at them dumbly, tears of blood streaming down her cheeks.

“Stay put. No matter what you hear, unless I call for you, stay put.” Beelzebub started for the stairs and then paused. “If I say Holy Water, please come faster. I don’t think your father is going to like me very much after this.”

“Don’t hurt—”

“Stay,” Beelzebub said, climbing the stairs and opening the bedroom door slowly. 

They found the angel kneeling beside the bathtub, Crowley in the tub covered head to toe in blood—shrieking and clawing at himself—while the baby, a curious little thing trapped inside a clear egg like some kind of amphibian, lay on the bathmat beside the angel. 

“Crowley, please! Stop! Please, my love! I’m sorry!” The angel was preoccupied trying to calm down the demon, and Crowley…

Beelzebub closed their eyes and listened. 

Listened even harder.

_I killed it! I killed it! It’s dead! Don’t hate me! I’m sorry! I tried and I’m sorry! Don’t hurt me! I don’t know what went wrong! I tried!_

Over and over on repeat. 

So he thought the baby was a stillbirth because of the egg, it seemed. Made sense to Beelzebub. They hadn’t been in much control of their faculties either after giving birth to Wrath. The only difference was they had passed out and Michael had snatched Wrath away and Crowley was wide awake in a state of panic.

So… Beelzebub pondered a moment, quietly watching the spectacle play out from the bathroom doorway. They had a demon in the tub, completely incapacitated. No threat there. An angel beside him, very distracted but also placed in a way that it could see the baby if Beelzebub were to try snatching it.

Crowley was trying to speak, probably trying to give voice to any one of those racing thoughts in his head, but all that came out was loud hissing. This, for some reason, upset the angel even more and Beelzebub took their chance. 

The angel had both his hands wrapped around Crowley’s wrists and was pinning them so he’d stop ripping at his hair in distress. Beelzebub took advantage of that and, in less time than it took to blink, had grabbed the baby and was cradling it over the sink.

“Put it down!” The angel screamed, that same ominous tone he’d used when he caught Beelzebub in their bedroom tormenting Crowley in the past. “Beelzebub! Put him down right now!”

“You stupid angel…” Beelzebub said, lowering the little egg into the sink. “Were you just going to leave it in here until it dies?”

“Leave him alone! I will not hesitate to—”

Beelzebub dug their nails gently into the wall of the egg, feeling a gross rush of fluid as the egg popped. The angel let out a gasp and tried to rush them, but Beelzebub held up one hand threateningly. 

“Don’t move. I don’t want to hurt it, but you’ll make me hurt it,” they said.

The angel was glowing in rage, its skin bright enough to burn if it got too close to them—or to Crowley. 

Slowly, Beelzebub pulled away the clear film that was clinging to the little life form, extracting a displeased cry from the infant. The angel tried to lunge forward, but Beelzebub moved into a defensive posture with one hand hooked like a claw over the baby in a threatening gesture. It was an empty threat—Beelzebub would no sooner hurt the baby than Annie, but the angel didn’t need to know that. 

So the angel remained, trapped in place, both looking horrified and relived as the baby started to cry. Across the room, Crowley was buried in his arms again, his wings wrapped around him like a cage.

“He thinks it’s stillborn,” Beelzebub said, dropping the last bit of slime into the sink and shaking off their hand. “Let me handle it. He’s not going to listen to you.”

The angel tried to put itself between Beelzebub and Crowley as they stepped forward with the baby in their arms. The angel was holding out one of its glowing hands with a ferocious scowl.

“Give him to me. Now. And I will not hurt you.”

“Go ahead—grab me. Burn me. Then I’ll drop the child and make that monster’s worst nightmares come true,” Beelzebub threatened, enjoying the look of shock and hurt that crossed the angel’s face. 

“Give me my child,” the angel tried again, that radiating grace dimming away into nothing but desperately clutching hands. 

Beelzebub cradled the whining infant in their arms and side stepped the angel, coming to rest before the tub where Crowley was still hissing pitifully to himself. 

“Crowley… I know you can hear me,” Beelzebub said, quite sternly. They were surprised it had no effect. “Crowley!”

“Don’t yell at him! Give me my baby!” The angel pleaded, too afraid now to attack them. “Please! He’s frightened! Leave him be! I don’t want to hurt you!”

Crowley remained cowering as if he had no idea that anything else was going on around him. Beelzebub gave him one last chance, and when he didn’t answer, they held the infant carefully in one arm whilst bringing the other down in a vicious slash across the demon’s face. The slap resonated like a gunshot, as did Crowley’s shocked holler of pain.

“Get out! Get out right now!” The angel screamed, unaware that Crowley had finally shut up. Unaware that his arms were being lowered as Beelzebub struck him again. 

Crowley let out one hiss of aggression this time, his eyes finally opening and showing pure rage instead of terror. 

“Give me my child!” The angel boomed, his voice nearly shaking the walls with holy radiance. It even made Crowley flinch though his eyes never left Beelzebub.

That was fine. As soon as the demon’s arms were open, Beelzebub took the opportunity to slide the baby from their arms onto the demon’s chest and backed away. Crowley’s reflexes had the baby wrapped in his arms before Beelzebub even finished letting go.

The angel was even quicker. 

It latched onto Beelzebub’s arm and yanked it, pulling them toward the bathroom door. Before Beelzebub could even crash down onto the floor in the bedroom from the force of being tossed, an electrifying burn of pain had overcome their entire arm. When they looked up, the angel was glowing again—pure hostility on its typically placid face.

“If you ever touch them again, I will make Holy Water look merciful,” the angel growled. 

Beelzebub didn’t move until the bathroom door had slammed closed.

“I get him to wake up, and this is the thanks I get,” they muttered, slowly rising to their feet and clutching at their burned arm. 

( ) ( ) ( )

Crowley’s ears were ringing loudly, his entire body trembling though he didn’t exactly feel cold. There was an infant on his chest, naked and wet and gurgling unhappily. It was his, he realized suddenly. His baby. 

When had that happened?

He didn’t know, but without a doubt, this little creature with yellow eyes was his.

Crowley lifted his head to see Aziraphale standing over him, glowing so brightly it hurt to look at him. 

“It’s… It’s a baby,” Crowley said before swallowing hard, realizing that was probably the least intelligent thing he’d said in a month. “It’s our baby,” he tried again.

Aziraphale dropped to his knees beside him—they were in the bathtub, Crowley realized—and reached toward Crowley’s face. Before he could make contact, Crowley could feel the heat coming off of his hand and jerked away. That glowing aura around him was equally blinding and painful.

“Oh! I’m so sorry!” Aziraphale said, shaking his hand suddenly and then reaching up again once it had ceased glowing white. “So sorry, my love. Did I hurt you?”

“”M fine,” Crowley said, shifting the baby so it was cradled in his arms as opposed to laying on his chest. “It’s ours,” he said, not caring if it sounded stupid this time. He felt as if he’d just woken up from the very worst dream in the world to find out he was truly in paradise. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, tears falling from his eyes rapidly. “Yes, he is.” The angel let out a sob that was poorly disguised as a laugh. “How are you, my darling? Are you alright?”

“I… I think I am, yeah.” Crowley moved to sit up properly, surprised that the only thing which hurt were his wings. (He noticed with a start that they were in desperate need of preening and tucked them away, embarrassed.) “Well, that was a nice suit. What happened to you?” Crowley asked, noticing the soft gray suit his husband was wearing and the blood smeared all over it.

“It doesn’t matter,” Aziraphale said, miracling himself into his usual suit and then miracling for a towel and wet cloth. 

Crowley was hesitant to let go of the baby for an instant, even to let Aziraphale wrap it in the soft cloth, and felt his heart stutter in his chest until the infant was back, safe in his arms. He stared happily down at the newborn while Aziraphale ran the damp cloth over his cheeks and neck, cleaning away the tears of blood Crowley didn’t remember shedding.

“What’s ‘s name?” Crowley asked, leaning back sleepily against the tub after he was certain the angel had hand washed every millimeter of his flesh with the cloth that never seemed to grow dirty. 

“Constantine, I think,” Aziraphale said, his voice still sounding choked with emotion. Crowley turned to look at him with a smile, beaming inside and out because that was the name he had picked and he was so pleased the angel liked it, too. It was better than William, at any rate. Crowley was not about to allow his first born son to be named after that shagger Shakespeare. “Would you like that?”

“It’s a perfect name. Antigone and Constantine. And we’ll call the next ones Anthony and Cleopatra. Then Agamemnon and Clytemnestra,” he continued when Aziraphale didn’t laugh. 

Crowley tore his eyes away from the newborn staring up at him with big, yellow eyes, and realized Aziraphale was crying even still.

“What is it?” Crowley asked, his spirits sinking as he held the baby a little tighter. 

“I’m just so happy you’re alright,” the angel said, sobbing and covering his face a moment before wrapping Crowley up in his arms and squeezing him carefully, along with the baby. “I love you so much, Crowley. I’m so sorry.”

“What? Why? You’re scaring me—”

“No—No, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Don’t be frightened. It’s alright now. Everything’s fine,” Aziraphale said before kissing Crowley gently on the mouth. “I’m just so happy, my love. I love you so much.”

“I love you, too,” Crowley said, holding his baby a little tighter. He was afraid Aziraphale was about to take it away from him and unsure as to why. “Has… Has Annie seen the baby?” He asked, squirming a little as the shower curtain he was sitting on in the tub gave him no cushion against the hard porcelain.

“No—Crowley, darling… How could she?”

“What, is she not home?” Crowley asked before groaning. “Angel, I need to get out of the tub. It’s breaking my arse.” 

“Oh! Of course, dear. I-I’ll hold Constantine. Let me help you,” Aziraphale said, scooping up the baby while Crowley staggered onto his feet. There was a strange ache in his legs that he didn’t quite understand, but otherwise Crowley felt no worse for wear. 

“Ew… Angel, what’s that in the sink over there?” Crowley asked, eyes landing on some sort of clear, milky film laying over the white porcelain. He hadn’t thrown up, had he?

“Don’t worry about that,” Aziraphale said, snapping his fingers and miracling it clean. Crowley shrugged and snapped his own fingers, dressing himself in an instant, unsure why he was naked to begin with.

“Angel?” Crowley said, trying to get the baby back in his arms while Aziraphale reluctantly surrendered him.

“Yes, my love?” Aziraphale asked, pressing close as Crowley rocked the trilling infant in his arms. Constantine’s little voice was so shrill, so precious, it drove an arrow of love through Crowley’s heart. 

“Did I…just give birth?” Crowley asked, unable to think of any other reason he would be naked in the tub without water for himself and the angel to splash in.

“I… Yes. Yes, you did. Do you not… Do you not remember?” Aziraphale asked, sounding shocked and concerned.

“No,” Crowley said, feeling like he should be more upset about this, but unable to feel anything bad while holding his son to his chest. “Probably for the best. I’ve seen childbirth. Nasty stuff. Guess my mind saw fit to block it out. Was I bad at it?”

“What a thing to ask!” Aziraphale exclaimed, shaking his head as he worked his finger into Constantine’s tiny fist. He smiled so radiantly as the baby held his hand for the first time.

“Guess I wasn’t too bad. Look how handsome he is! Has eyes like me,” Crowley said, laughing happily as he stared down at the big yellow eyes. For some reason… Crowley really couldn’t place it, but for some reason he thought these eyes—these same eyes he himself had hidden for years—looked so perfect.

“He’s perfect, my love,” Aziraphale said, smiling at him before holding out his arms expectantly.

Oh… He wanted a turn…

Crowley tried to keep forcing a smile as he handed Constantine over. As soon as the baby was in his angel’s arms, Crowley had to wrap his own around Aziraphale’s waist. Holding the angel who held the baby was a lot like still holding the baby, right?

Aziraphale wandered back into their bedroom and snapped his fingers, clearing away this odd mess of bloodied sheets and pillows and feathers that had—for whatever reason—become their bed. Crowley imagined that must’ve been where he gave birth, but was only slightly concerned about his absence of memory. Aziraphale was seated up by the headboard and Crowley had come to lay down beside him with his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder, positioned in a way he could easily see his little hatchling. 

The baby itself didn’t do much—just stared and blinked and trilled and closed its eyes from time to time. Crowley loved him regardless. He’d been happy when they’d received Annie—of course he had been!—but not like this. He was hanging on the baby’s every noise, his precious, perfect son.

“Annie must see him,” Crowley said after an hour or two. He was still letting Aziraphale hold the baby, but only because the angel kept alternating between being happy and crying. His tears did not seem happy at all—Crowley had seen him cry tears of happiness a handful of time and this was not it. He couldn’t bring himself to focus on the sorrow though, not with his perfect baby so close at hand. All he could do was let Aziraphale hold him and hope that the baby brought him as much joy as he did Crowley. “Is she home?”

“Yes, of course she is,” Aziraphale answered, wiping at his cheeks absently. Crowley took advantage of his distraction to pull Constantine into his own arms. Crowley, already in a state of elation, felt ten times better with his son in his arms.

“Let’s show her. We could all have tea,” Crowley said, giving his finger to Constantine who squeezed it while staring at him curiously. “Except for you. No tea for you, little one. Not for another decade or two.” Crowley purred happily and kept Constantine bundled in his arms as they got up from the bed and went down the hall to the nursery. The towel Constantine was wrapped in was replaced with a little blue and white striped outfit just the right size for their little newborn. He was then swaddled in a soft, tan plaid blanket and tucked carefully back into Crowley’s arms. 

Aziraphale’s hand was on Crowley’s shoulder with every step he took down the stairs, and the grip only tightened when they stepped into the parlor where Annie was sitting…with _Beelzebub._

Crowley held his infant tighter to his chest and stiffened. Was this an ambush? Why was no one else acting surprised to see the prince sitting there on their couch beside Annie.

“Aziraphale—”

“It’s about time you made it downstairs. Feeling better, are you, Crowley?” Beelzebub asked, a twinge of pain in his voice. Crowley realized then that the demon was clutching his arm which was burnt black and charred around the middle of his bicep. 

“What is he doing here?” Crowley asked, backing a step toward the stairs—not sure how fast he could flee with an infant in his arms. 

“It’s alright, Dada!” Annie said, smiling at him though her face was streaked in tears. “Is that the baby?”

“Yes,” Crowley said, withdrawing as she drew nearer. 

“Annie, please—don’t…don’t crowd him,” Aziraphale said, far too tenderly.

Why was no one addressing the _fly_ in the room?

“What’s he doing here?” Crowley asked again.

“I was keeping Antigone company while you were upstairs screaming your head off. I’ll be going now. Don’t want your attack dog sinking his teeth into me again,” Beelzebub said, gesturing between Aziraphale and his burned arm. “You get one free pass, angel, because of your circumstances. It won’t happen again.”

Crowley wanted to speak up, to ask Beelzebub who he thought he was coming into their house making threats, but a wiser part of his brain told him to keep quiet. 

“It’s got your eyes, doesn’t it?” Beelzebub asked, standing from the couch and straightening their jacket.

“Yes,” Crowley answered, unwittingly allowing his wings to manifest as he tried to make himself appear larger in case Beelzebub thought to launch an attack on their hatchling. 

“Lovely. I’ll be back in a decade—”

“You can’t have him,” Crowley snapped, automatically. That was the only thing that made sense. Beelzebub was here to try to steal his child to replace the one Crowley had crushed—the monster who hurt Annie.

Beelzebub looked at him as if he were stupid. 

“I don’t want him. Nasty thing. Half angel. What would I do with that? I’ll be back in a decade to put _you_ back to work. If something should come up—the baby is sick, dying, whatever—”

Crowley’s very being stopped at the suggestion. He held the baby impossibly closer and backed one step up the staircase. Maybe with his wings expanded and himself appearing taller, Beelzebub would leave them be. It wasn’t as if he could actually attack the prince.

“—we can renegotiate. But otherwise… Ten years. Sound fair to everyone?”

Crowley nodded dumbly, shivering as Constantine started to cry. 

“Good.” Beelzebub then turned his gaze to Annie who was still standing at his side. She smiled at him, a horribly flirtatious smile Crowley wanted to slap off her face before it got her into trouble, and then leaned in at the same time as the prince.

They kissed.

Holy God and Satan… They were kissing. What the devil had he missed while upstairs!?

“You have been a doll,” the prince cooed at her, stroking her cheek with the tip of one finger. “I’ll be around. Don’t wait up for me.”

Crowley was still trying to think of an insult to hurl at the demon, or something to say to Annie, when Beelzebub sank down into the ground and disappeared. 

“Wh-What the—What the actual fuck was that!?” Crowley snapped, cringing as his baby gave a loud scream and began to wail. 

Aziraphale came to him and tried to get the baby from his arms, but Crowley resisted. He tucked his wings away and came off the stairs, marching over to Annie who was smiling shyly at him.

“Beelz and I—”

“No, no! There’s no ‘Beelz and I’! That’s _Beelzebub!_ The Prince of Hell!”

“We’ve had this argument already, Dada! Can’t I just hold the baby?”

Crowley was scrambling for words as his daughter effortlessly hoisted the infant out of his hands and sank down onto the couch with him. 

“He looks like you, Papa! But with Dada’s eyes! Oh, how cute!”

“What’s happening?” Crowley asked, looking back and forth from his children to his husband who was walking away from him. “Angel!” He shouted, apparently startling Annie whose head shot up.

“I’m making us tea, my love. Come.”

“I can’t,” Crowley said, automatically, looking back at Constantine. He couldn’t abandon him. He was afraid if he let the baby out of his sight, he’d disappear. 

“Then wait here and I’ll be back,” Aziraphale said, smiling at him gently and going off to the kitchen only a few paces away. He was so close and yet Crowley didn’t feel capable of following him.

“Come here, Dada! I want to take a picture of us together.”

“Wait for your Papa,” Crowley said, obeying her regardless and sitting down on the couch. 

He couldn’t help fussing—fixing the blanket Constantine was swaddled in, correcting the way Annie held him—and wondered if this was some sort of awful instinct he’d acquired. He felt helpless against it, wishing—absurdly—that he could become a marsupial and carry the baby around with him inside a pouch on his chest. How lucky those creatures were!

Before long, Aziraphale came back and had sat beside him after placing a tea tray Crowley didn’t look at onto the coffee table before them. Annie made them pose for a photo which, upon later reflection, would show Crowley staring only at his new baby and not the camera with his smiling daughter and husband. 

Annie helped herself to a cup of tea, allowing Crowley to take his son back into his arms. Aziraphale was sipping on a cup also, leaving Crowley the happiest, uninterrupted father in the world. He had his daughter to his left, his husband on his right, and his son in his arms. He’d never in all of his existence felt so warm.

( ) ( ) ( )

Aziraphale didn’t understand what had happened. Beelzebub had struck Crowley twice across the face, forced him to hold the newborn baby she had just ripped out of its shell, and suddenly Crowley couldn’t remember anything. He was happy, no doubt about that. Absolutely overjoyed and beaming—but he couldn’t remember being pregnant, couldn’t remember giving birth, couldn’t even explain what had caused him to shut down when Aziraphale had tried to give him the egg to begin with. Aziraphale didn’t wish to complain, but he wanted to understand what had happened beyond Beelzebub’s lazy “he thinks it’s stillborn.”

And by the looks of it, he would never understand.

Crowley was back to the way he had been when he had first been expecting, following Aziraphale around the cottage like a shadow—only now he had Constantine in his arms every step of the way. It was the baby he couldn’t leave, not that Aziraphale was about to try separating them, but he liked being close to Aziraphale too. 

He had been worried about Crowley’s recovery from the birth. Worried Crowley might reject the child, worried he might stay in that awful state of fear and neediness. Now, Crowley was needy—but it was almost as if he were bragging.

He stalked Aziraphale around and, at every chance, beckoned for Aziraphale to look at what they’d made together. Look at his eyes, oh look at his hands—Aziraphale, look at his smile. On and on. It was endearing. Aziraphale loved it! But it worried him. 

He worried it was like the preening had been, all those decades ago. He would clean his wings excessively because he didn’t want to think about anything else. Now, he carried his baby around and called attention to him non-stop. 

At first, Aziraphale thought Crowley was just seeking reassurance and praise. He’d been alone giving birth, isolate and frightened and unsure if he was okay or the baby was alright. Perhaps, Aziraphale thought, Crowley was trying to get that comfort now.

You did well, darling. He is perfect, darling! You did perfectly, my love!

But nothing was enough.

Aziraphale told Crowley he loved him dozens of times every day and was rewarded with a confused albeit happy expression on his husband’s face—like he didn’t know why Aziraphale was telling him this but it pleased him. Honestly, Aziraphale half expected Crowley to start walking up and down the streets of South Downs telling everyone to look at what he’d accomplished.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale finally mustered the courage to attempt, three months after their son had been born, “can you put Constantine down for a nap?”

“Why?” Crowley asked, sounding blissed out and pleased as ever. “He’s not sleepy, are you, my little hatchling?”

“Please? I want to lay down with you,” Aziraphale said. Annie was out of the house, with Beelzebub he was fairly certain—though Crowley was unaware. 

“I… I guess I could. Yeah,” Crowley said, looking anxiously down at Constantine, then putting on a smile. “Yes. We can do that. My fierce warrior can sleep by himself, right?” Crowley asked his infant, kissing Constantine on the face before starting his ascent of the stairs. 

“Fierce warrior?” Aziraphale asked, following a few steps behind them.

“Yes. Like his Papa!” Crowley exclaimed. “He’s got your hair—I’m sure he’ll be the next fine Guardian of the Eastern Gate. Keeper of the Flaming Sword! Dada’s fierce warrior,” Crowley said, finally laying the baby down in his crib in the nursery. Crowley was, at once, stooping over the crib, his head in his hands, smiling down at the baby.

Aziraphale paused to admire him, too. His perfect son—the perfect complement to his perfect daughter. It was oddly satisfying to have one of each. One with red hair, one with gold. One with blue eyes, one with yellow. He wondered, quite imaginatively, what his son would turn out to be.

“Isn’t he perfect?” Crowley asked, like he did ten thousand times a day.

“Yes,” Aziraphale answered, rubbing his hand up and down Crowley’s back. “Come to bed?”

All at once, the smile left Crowley’s face and he was reaching down into the crib to stroke their son’s cheek.

“I can’t,” he said.

“Come now, darling. He’ll be alright. Let the fierce warrior be fierce. Yes?” Aziraphale attempted. 

Crowley looked so conflicted, but eventually relented and pulled his hand back. He seemed concerned when Constantine didn’t cry for him. The baby’s eyes were fixed on the mobile slowly spinning overhead. 

As Aziraphale pulled Crowley by his hand from the room, the demon stayed looking back—eyes fixed worriedly on his child. He was breathing deeply by the time Aziraphale got him in their bedroom and stared at the closed door almost frantically.

“Maybe we could move the crib in here,” Crowley said, his jaw working anxiously.

“Darling, come sit down.”

“I think there’s room. We’ll set it over there, away from the window. Can we do that?”

“No… Sit,” Aziraphale said, trying not to give in to the hurt look Crowley gave him. 

With a heavy sigh, Crowley sank down onto the bed, staring at the closed door.

“I just don’t want anything to happen,” Crowley said, already aware of what Aziraphale wanted to say. “I-I don’t remember a lot, but… But it was bad. I don’t want anyone to hurt him.”

“What was bad, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked. They had yet to talk about it. They’d yet to clear the air between them regarding the pregnancy and the birth—or Aziraphale’s guilt at leaving him to deliver on his own.

“I…” Crowley was biting into his bottom lip and staring at the door as if it were burning. 

“Can you look at me, please?” Aziraphale asked. It took a few moment of pleading, but Crowley finally fixed his gaze on the angel, looking frantic. “My love, we need to _talk_ to one another. Can we please just sit together?”

“Y-Yeah. Yeah, of course, angel. Right...” Crowley looked around the room anxiously, then came over and sat down on the bed quite stiffly. “What… What did you want to tell me?”

Aziraphale stared at him a moment, hating his infernal sunglasses for blocking his view of the emotions in Crowley’s eyes. 

“Can we… Can we please talk about Constantine?”

Crowley made a few conflicted noises, then turned to look at the door again.

“Don’t see why he can’t be in the room for that. He’s a baby an’ all… Not like he’d understand what you’re saying about him.”

“I want to talk about the birth, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed. 

“’S nothing to talk about. Was fine—got the baby. Can I go get my son?”

“Crowley! Please!” Aziraphale called, his heart sinking as he realized how desperate Crowley was—not for his child, but to avoid the subject all together.

“I don’t know what you want me to say about it. If you wanted to know what it was like, you should’ve been there! I don’t see why I have to relive it just to make you happy. ‘S bad enough I have to think about it every day.”

“You told me you didn’t remember,” Aziraphale said quietly.

Crowley let out a hiss and stood up from the bed. Aziraphale watched him, torn between blocking Crowley from the door and letting him leave. He didn’t know how far it was alright to push him before...before he broke. Crowley stopped with his hand on the doorknob, his shoulders tensed and rigid. He didn’t leave, though. He seemed frozen—perhaps just as conflicted as the angel.

“Crowley?”

“I didn’t,” Crowley said. “I didn’t _at first._ I still don’t, sometimes. It’s… It’s like it happened to someone else and I just witnessed it. There’s me...out of my mind, terrified, in labor. Worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life, no idea what I’m supposed to do… And you’re just gone. You knew I didn’t want you to leave, and you did it anyway.”

“I never would have if I’d known you were in labor. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I couldn’t talk!” Crowley said, finally turning to face him. “I couldn’t _say_ anything. You had to have noticed! Angel, you had to… I was trying so hard to get you to stay, and you left me.”

“You needed me every minute. I couldn’t possibly be with you every moment, my darling—”

“Don’t! Don’t justify it—don’t act like it was my fault!” Crowley hissed. “I needed you and you _left me!”_

“I didn’t know you were in labor!”

“I didn’t either! I was _hurt!_ I’d been in pain for days and you left me… You promised me you’d be there and you weren’t! You were at _lunch_ with the man who tried to _murder me!”_

Aziraphale bowed his head, his stomach tying itself in knots. He shouldn’t have gone. He knew that now, but he’d gone to so many dinners so many times while Crowley stayed home, incapacitated in his nest. Should he have never have gone out at all? Should he have sentenced himself to two years trapped in the nest with that awful aura, watching Crowley’s body fall apart in front of him? 

He should have… He should have, Aziraphale realized. He’d been selfish. He’d been thoughtless. 

“Words can’t—”

“No,” Crowley hissed, “they can’t. I thought my baby was dead. I thought my angel was going to blame me for it. I thought everything I had had been torn out from under me, and _you—”_ Crowley pointed his finger accusingly, almost threateningly, toward Aziraphale’s face. “—were out with my boss!”

“I was out with _Annie,”_ Aziraphale pleaded, his heart breaking. 

Anger. What Crowley had been hiding behind his affection for their son was a pure, pain-filled rage. 

“You should’ve been with me! I would’ve never left you, Aziraphale. I wouldn’t have left your side if it were you and not me.”

“I… I’m so sorry, Crowley. I didn’t understand… You were so upset all the time. Nothing I did helped you. I… I needed space sometimes to...to recover. Your aura—”

“You _left_ me!” Crowley shouted, a tear of blood streaking down from beneath the left lens of his sunglasses. “I was upset because you kept _leaving_ me! Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to go back to my son. I’m not _leaving_ him. And, if you don’t mind, I’d like it if we didn’t bring this up again. There are some things, Angel, I would do better to forget.”

“Crowley, please! Please, wait a moment. Please!” Aziraphale got to his feet and clutched gently at Crowley’s arm, afraid the demon would shove him away. 

Crowley stiffened, but otherwise remained still and silent. 

“Is there… Is there any way I could make it up to you? I… I never meant for that to happen. I didn’t understand. I love you so much and I never meant to make you feel alone, especially in your hour of need. I will do anything you ask to make up for it. Anything at all…”

“’S not that easy,” Crowley said, his voice a nervous hiss as he pulled his arm free of Aziraphale’s hand. “I love you, Angel, but…I really just want to be with my son right now. I’d like it if we...could just focus on Constantine.”

“I’d like to make amends—”

“Angel… Now’s just not the time,” Crowley said, opening the door and hurrying back into the nursery. 

Aziraphale hesitated to follow. He felt Crowley would probably prefer his space, but worried that the space between them might become permanent—might become filled with more doubts and fears and bad memories. He went slowly into the nursery to find Crowley sitting in the rocking chair with Constantine in his arms, smiling as if nothing had happened—the tear on his cheek miracled away. 

“He’s asleep, Angel,” Crowley said, looking up and smiling—his glasses hiding whether or not the emotion reached his eyes. “His first real nap. You don’t suppose...we could start a baby book, do you? Keep track of these sorts of things?” His voice held no hesitation, no stutter or indication that they’d even just had an argument. “Would probably make Annie jealous though, right? Didn’t think to do that with her...”

“I think it would be lovely,” Aziraphale said, his mind swimming with confusion. 

What was happening? Why did Crowley act like two different people—one happy, and one distraught, depending on whether or not the baby was in his arms? Was it Constantine’s gift? Annie evoked Lust, did Constantine evoke Joy? 

But Joy wasn’t a sin… Nor was Distraction or Love or Obsession.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale tried, testing the waters a bit.

“Hm?” Crowley asked, staring down at their baby.

“Do you remember giving birth?”

“Birth? Ah—It was the...the second of November. That’s right. The second. Constantine’s birthday is November the second. Did you forget, Angel?”

“Of course not… I just wondered if you remembered what happened that night.”

“Well… Constantine came. That’s what happened,” Crowley said, smiling at his sleeping infant. 

“May I hold him, my love?” Aziraphale asked, coming over to the chair and kneeling before Crowley on the floor. 

Crowley stared at him anxiously, looking from Aziraphale to their baby and back. 

“Y-Yeah… Yeah, of course.” Crowley slowly passed Constantine over to Aziraphale who cradled him, careful not to wake him. His heart warmed with love the very moment the baby was in his arms, but otherwise felt nothing which could possibly overcome the pain still residing in his heart. 

Crowley kept a hand on Constantine, stroking one of the baby’s hands gently while Aziraphale held him. So long as he was touching him, Aziraphale slowly came to realize, Crowley was happy—was distracted. 

“I am so sorry, my love,” Aziraphale whispered.

“Sorry? Why?” Crowley asked. 

“For leaving you alone,” Aziraphale offered.

“I’m not _alone._ I haven’t been alone in...in years. If you’re not there, then I have Annie. And if you’re both gone, I’ve had Constantine. I’m never alone. He loves me.”

_“I_ love you,” Aziraphale offered, finally causing Crowley to look at him. The angle let him see through the tinted lenses to Crowley’s nearly glowing eyes. He looked happy—he looked so unbelievably happy that he looked mostly gone from his mind. 

It made Aziraphale feel sick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everybody. I'm planning to rapid-fire update because I have...about three chapters finished and ready to go and I don't really know how you're going to like this chapter or the following ones, so...basically, wanted to post it all at once in case I go down in flames because you all hate it. At least then all I have written is out and I can stop ^^;


	12. Chapter 12

Constantine, like Annie, was not like other children. But, at the same time, Constantine was like no child Aziraphale had ever met in all his years on Earth. At ten-years-old, he was just now talking and looking the ripe age of five, maybe six at most. He played with bugs he caught in jars, played with little animals he caught easily with his bare hands. It was at his whimpered urging that they ended up with two cats and a dog that had “run away” to its actual owner a week after Constantine “rescued” it.

Crowley hated the cats. Crowley had hated the dog even more and had put in twenty-times the effort needed to find its owner after it showed up. He was, more or less, acting somewhat like himself, but that heavy cloud remained between them even as the years ticked on and Constantine grew from a tiny little infant into a very un-warrior-like toddler.

Constantine was a “big boy” now and didn’t want carried around. Crowley was far too clearly devastated by this change in their relationship and, like with Annie when she had become a teenager and started sneaking out, Crowley was forced closer to Aziraphale in want of comfort. Aziraphale who he’d barely talked to in a decade… Aziraphale who was too ashamed of what he’d done to Crowley to call attention to his neglect. 

They had neither preened each other nor held each other in at least two years. The angel couldn’t even remember the last time Crowley had initiated a kiss between the two of them either. He was fine with Annie, amazing with Constantine, but it was as if Aziraphale were just a tenant in the cottage—not a partner and certainly not a husband.

So, with those sentiments in mind, it really surprised him when Crowley sat down on the couch and flung his legs carelessly over Aziraphale’s lap.

“Can—Can I help you?” Aziraphale asked, spluttering a bit.

“I got kicked out of the garden.”

“We all did. Thanks to you,” Aziraphale said, picking up the book Crowley had knocked out of his hands with his feet.

“No—by Connie. He told me he didn’t want to play with me anymore.”

“He’s a fierce warrior, remember? Let him be fierce alone.”

“Aziraphale?”

“What is it? I’m trying to read.”

“Beelzebub is coming.”

“That’s hardly news. She’s here about every other week calling on Annie. I think our daughter’s gotten quite attached to that one. 

“For me, Angel. Beelzebub is coming for me. I had a decade, remember? Ten years and then it’s back to Hell, back to tempting.”

“Ah. Yes. I had...almost forgotten.” He hadn’t forgotten, not really. It was just that the passing of time was so odd for him. Ten years felt rather like...ten weeks. A few months. He marked time with the birthdays of his children, but it never really occurred to him that ten had passed.

“So...I guess I’ll be gone a while. Probably… Probably for the best, don’t you think? Some time apart to...sort things out.”

The words ached like a knife in his chest. Crowley had been distant, but Aziraphale hardly felt cheery at the thought of him being gone. And how hard was he going to take being away from Constantine all together? He had only just recently stopped pulling his literal hair out from stress whenever he had to leave the boy alone. 

“I hardly think we need to...sort anything out,” Aziraphale attempted, setting his book down in favor of stroking Crowley’s leg in his lap. “Not...Not as far as I am concerned. Is there… Is there something you’re meaning to tell me with this?”

Crowley shrugged and turned to stare at the wall above their fireplace. Photos were hung there of Annie and Constantine, all four of them together as a perfect, odd little family. 

“I don’t think...this is what you wanted, Angel. I don’t think that at all.”

“This? You can’t possibly mean _us._ I know you’re not so foolish as to assume I would rather be alone, without you or the kids!”

“Without me, yes. Without the kids, no. Anyway, Annie’s hardly a kid. I suspect she’ll be having hatchlings of her own soon. Little maggots crawling out from the shells of her and Beelzebub’s eggs.”

“Don’t change the subject! How could you ever say I want to go _without_ you?”

“It’s different between us. Different...in a bad way, I think. I’m not myself anymore. You’re not you anymore. I think I… I think I finally ruined you, Angel. I think it’s better if I do leave.”

“What and leave me with Constantine? Leave me to wrestle him into the tub at bath time by myself? To cook and clean and teach him all on my own? What would I even tell him, Crowley? You love that child! How can you even think of going on without him?”

“I have no choice but to go. I don’t know where Beelzebub will send me or how long I’ll be gone. It’s better he have no father at all than one who’s hardly around.”

“Nonsense! Stop this at once. I won’t hear another word. You’re going back to work, and you’re coming home when you’re done. The only thing that’s changed is you. Ever since you had Constantine, you’ve been a wreck. You don’t talk to me if we’re alone, and if Connie is there, he’s all you think about. He’s just like your feathers after you fell into my shop! He’s just like your preening for hours and hours on end because you were too scared to talk to me!” 

They had had this fight many times. Thousands of times. 

And, like all the times before, Crowley pulled away. He took his legs from Aziraphale’s lap and crossed them in front of himself irritably. 

“So sorry if that’s not what you want to hear, but you won’t accuse me of having changed for the worse when it’s entirely you who has made things—”

“Difficult.”

“If you must put it like that, yes! Just tell me I disappointed you! Just admit that you’re angry with me! At least then we can _work_ on it instead of sweeping it under the rug!”

“What do I have to be angry about? I wanted more children and I got them.”

“One—we got one! And you gave birth to him _alone._ Just admit that you remember and that it upsets you!”

“It doesn’t matter! It was ten years ago!”

“It does matter! You act as if it were yesterday, Crowley!”

“You’re the one who keeps bringing it up. I’d be happy to just forget the whole thing, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“I do mind! My love, do you even hear yourself speak? You’re asking to leave me, saying we need time apart anyway. Then you say I’m the one with the problem. If you… If you hate me, Crowley, please just say so and we’ll go our separate ways.”

“Hate you? How could you say that I hate—”

“Dad! Dad, I caught it! I caught it this time! Come and look!” 

As always, there was Constantine interrupting. He burst into the room with a snake in his fist that had no business being out in November. 

“Oh, Connie, no! Where did you find that?” Crowley asked, taking the little serpent out of his son’s hand and cradling it in his palms while it wriggled desperately for warmth. 

“I dug it up!” And indeed, he was covered head to toe in all different kinds of muck.

“Connie, we don’t do this. Let the poor snakes sleep, my little excavator.” Crowley hissed something to the little snake who coiled up tightly. “If you dig them up, they’ll die. You don’t want to kill the snakes. Your Dada is a snake. These are my brethren.”

“But I caught him!” Constantine protested, earning a smile from Crowley who always beamed with unnecessary pride whenever the child spoke to him. 

“Do as Dada says and put him back, please? That’s a good lad,” he said as Constantine ran off with the little snake, back outside. “He’s been working on that hole by the foundation for weeks. I wondered what he was up to. Seems he found their den.”

“Crowley, may we resume—”

“Angel… I don’t hate you. I could never hate you. Don’t take it like that. But you can’t deny that it’s me. I changed. I changed when we had Connie and it dimmed your radiance. My...demonic presence has—”

“Horse shit!” Aziraphale spat, as venomously as he could. “Just say I abandoned you in your hour of need and you resent me for it!”

“I don’t—”

“You do!”

Crowley stared at him, a frown tugging at his lips. 

“You think I hate you?”

“You’re the one asking to leave.”

“I have to! Beelzebub isn’t going to say ‘oh, never mind, Crowley. We don’t need your services after all.’”

“You said you wanted time apart. Why?”

Crowley shook his head and looked down at his shoes.

“If I’m not… If I’m not with Constantine, I don’t know who I am. Aziraphale, I don’t feel like anything when he’s not right _here,”_ Crowley said, gesturing to his chest. “It’s like a part of me died with his birth. A part of me died when I carried him inside me and...and I really just want it to come back. I’m… I’m so afraid, Aziraphale. I’m afraid that I gave it to him, whatever part of me it was, and that it’s never coming back.”

“And how could going off alone forever, leaving us here, possibly fix that?” Aziraphale asked, scooting a little closer and setting a careful hand on Crowley’s shoulder. 

“I just want to be me again.”

“You need to be alone for that? Forsake your son for that? Your daughter?” For the time being, Aziraphale left himself out of the equation. 

“I’m afraid to want to stay… I’m afraid of what they’re going to make me do. I… I’m afraid an angel won’t want to be with a demon that’s being held accountable—a demon that’s actually up to no good, whether it wants to be or not.”

“Crowley, you were intentionally trying to cause trouble in Eden and I still loved you then. I know you don’t want to do it, but maybe...maybe it’ll be good for you. Maybe it is what you need. Tons of fathers leave home to go to work. Sailors leave for weeks at a time—pilots, truck drivers, businessmen, they all go away for extended periods. It doesn’t make their families love them any less. But they come back. I am sad that you’re going to work, but I’ll be waiting here for you to come back.”

“It could be years, Angel. I could come back to Annie having hatchlings and Constantine driving my car.”

“I highly doubt it will be that long. You’re a demon—you’re a master of creative thinking.”

“Strictly speaking, demons aren’t the most creative lot.”

“Then you’ll easily be able to out-think them. We’ll get through this, just promise me you _will_ come back. Promise you’ll come back to me, Crowley. Even if it’s just to see Constantine and Annie.”

Crowley sighed heavily and then surprised Aziraphale once again with a head on his shoulder. Aziraphale let out a shuddering little breath and rested his cheek against Crowley’s soft hair. 

“I love you, darling,” Aziraphale said gently. “No matter what happens or how far you go.”

Crowley sighed again, but didn’t pull away. 

“Please come home when you can...”

“They’re not going to let me come home, Angel. You know it as well as I do.”

And it was true. Aziraphale had the suspicion as well, but didn’t dare voice it. 

( ) ( ) ( )

It wasn’t exactly Annie’s first time to Hell. Nor was it her second… Or third. Okay, so maybe it was her twelfth or thirteenth. She didn’t go _very_ often. Just sometimes.

Sometimes she needed Beelzebub. Sometimes she was too impatient to wait around the cottage for her lover to make time to call on her. Today, however, Annie had something else entirely on her mind as she made her way down the escalator into the inferno below.

“Oh, Antigone! Antigone is here!” Screamed a demon as she stepped down into the dim hallway. “Someone call the prince! Someone call for the prince!”

Suddenly, demons were smacking into each other and into walls trying to scramble out of her way—trying to scramble toward Beelzebub’s office or living quarters. 

“Is Dagon around?” Antigone asked a shivering little mess of a demon with his hair spiked and parted like pincers on a beetle. 

“Dagon? Yes. Er—I can find her. Are you not here for Beelzebub today?”

“Beelz is busy. I want to talk to Dagon, but let Beelz know I’m here too if you can.” Annie flashed the boy a smile that made his demon cheeks flush. 

“O-Of course! Er—one last thing, Antigone.”

“Yes?” Annie asked, leaning back against the crumbling, stained wall of the hallway, letting her leg poke out through the thigh-high slit in her skirt. 

“Wrath has been getting...suspicious of your visits. Should I encounter him...”

“Oh, Wrath is no trouble. I’m sure a dashing little creature like you could outrun him in an instant.”

“He’s royalty, too, you know—”

“We’ll just let Beelz worry about that. Hm? Please get Dagon for me. I’ll wait right here.”

The demon hesitated a while longer before scurrying off down the hall into a throng of other, pitiable demons. They all weren’t as bad as she had first assumed—in fact, after Beelzebub deemed her an untouchable guest, most had been oddly polite. Not Wrath, of course, and not Hastur, but the others were alright. 

“Well, well, well… Look who’s sneaking around with us lowlifes,” came a shrill, piercing voice from down the hall. Annie leaned forward and felt a smile tangle up her lips as she spotted Delilah coming into view. 

Delilah was the same as she and Wrath—only pure demon. Her father, Annie pretended not to know, was Gabriel and her mother was the final angel who had fallen for torturing her serpent father in heaven, Uriel. Uriel died during birth and Gabriel had cast out his daughter after only a few dozen years. Delilah spent the majority of her time scheming up scandals relating to celebrities above ground and always dressed in the highest of high fashion even when below.

That is to say, she and Annie got along—to some degree.

“If it isn’t the old pussycat!” Annie called with a laugh, for Delilah turned into a bobcat.

“And the old whore,” Delilah retaliated, smiling even more. They hugged and kissed each other’s cheeks. “How are you, my darling gem?”

“Exhausted. Dada and Papa have been fighting again.”

“I heard they’ve been unhappy since they carried the little monster,” Delilah said. There was a lot of gossip Below about her fathers and Annie was absolutely positive all of it came from the pussycat.

“Connie’s not a monster. He’s just a little boy. A rowdy and spoiled little boy.”

“Daddy’s little demon,” Delilah said. “That’s what my sperm donor used to call me. If demons even have sperm. Do you think they do?”

“I can say for certain they do,” Annie replied with a wink. She would know. Delilah may or may not. She kept her own affairs tightly under wraps. 

That is to say, Annie hadn’t gotten to her yet.

“Any idea what he is?” Delilah asked. “The little monster? Gluttony, was it?”

“I don’t think he’s that,” Annie said, thinking of her noisy, bratty little brother. He was certainly more demon than angel, but what little boy was not? “I always thought he should be, but it doesn’t seem right.”

“Well, if he’s not gluttony, then it’s greed or envy. It’s the only two we’re waiting on, so says Lucifer.”

“Lucifer...yes. Have you seen him lately?”

“Mmm. Just this morning. I had to give him the good news. I successfully tempted and have damned the President of France and all eight of his children. Ah, just you wait until my scandal breaks the news! It’ll shake the world to its very core! Our demons will dance with the ferocious beat!” Delilah laughed and did a twirl for good measure—beaming with Pride in herself. 

“Is it hard to get an audience with him?”

“With Satan?” Delilah asked, eyes narrowing as Annie derailed her self-gratifying train of thought.

“Yes. I’m going to ask Dagon to take me to him.”

“You’d do better to ask Beelzebub. You’ve got her wrapped around your little finger.”

“That’s why I don’t want to ask Beelz. If it goes poorly, I don’t want her in any trouble for it.”

“I don’t think Beelzebub can get into trouble. She’s already gotten married and divorced and had a baby with a fallen angel. Not to mention fornicating with you.” Delilah was still pouting as she lit herself a cigarette. “Satan hasn’t even called her in for questioning, as far as I’m aware.” And she was aware of a lot.

A little while later, after jumping back on Delilah’s self-praise train, Dagon appeared with a small entourage including the little beetle. Annie couldn’t wait to snap him up one of these days—with permission from her lover, of course. Beelz wouldn’t tell her no, she was absolutely certain.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Delilah said. “Let’s have lunch soon. Bye bye, my treasure.”

“See you later, pussycat!” Annie called as her frenemy sauntered off down the hall. “Dagon! How are you, my beauty?” 

Dagon’s cheeks flushed beneath their shimmering silver scales. Annie had gotten to her twice already. Once with Beelzebub as well.

“You know we can’t meet without the prince,” Dagon said, nervously, quietly, but expectantly. What she was meaning to say was ‘you do plan to ask the prince, right?’

“Oh, I know. I was hoping to ask a favor. I really big one.”

“Look, if Beelzebub told you no—”

“I haven’t asked her. It’s a surprise!” Annie said, smiling sheepishly. 

Dagon looked her over, then dismissed her entourage. Annie winked at the beetle as he hurried away and he let out a little yip as if a dog had snapped at his ankle. 

“What is it?” Dagon asked. 

“I need to meet with Satan. Can you take me to him?” Her heart was pounding in her chest, anxiety threatening to claw through her carefully constructed disguise.

“You cannot be serious,” Dagon whispered. “You cannot _tempt_ his Supreme Evilness!”

“I don’t wish to! I mean...not unless he asks. Is he handsome?” Annie asked, trilling with nervous laughter. 

“Wicked child, what are you up to? I have all the right to tell Prince Beelzebub everything!”

“Oh, please don’t! Dagon, please! I only wish to make a request—an offering—to his...Supreme Evilness.” 

“You cannot fuck Satan!” Dagon whisper shouted. 

“I don’t want to!” She really didn’t. From what she’d heard, he was huge and that sounded awful.

“Then what could _you_ possibly want?”

“If it’s all the same to you, I should like to keep that between Lucifer and myself.”

Dagon looked her over nervously, her buggy eyes twitching back and forth restlessly. 

“What will I tell Beelzebub if you get torn limb from limb or thrown into the lake of sulfur?”

“That I’m a stupid, stupid child and I told her I wanted steak steak, not cheese steak last time I asked her to take me out for dinner. Please, Dagon? If he’s too busy or he won’t hear of it, I won’t ever ask again.”

The little, fish-scale littered Lord of the Files grabbed Annie by the hand and dragged her down the hall for minutes and minutes, through doorway and doorway, down and down multiple flights of stairs—all the while shaking her head and tossing about her waves of red hair. Annie reached out to stroke it a time or two (and pulled the under-duke up against one of the walls for a moment or two of impassioned kisses that overwhelmed her out of nowhere) before finally being slapped away. 

“Please refrain from speaking to Lord Satan of this,” Dagon whispered as they neared a large chamber door. It was horribly, horribly hot but Dagon was sweating and panting for an entirely different reason. “Stay here.”

She knocked upon the door and received a booming, ear-splitting “ENTER!” in return.

She disappeared through the door and closed it behind her, effectively cutting off Annie’s ability to hear what transpired. This left her nerve-wracked, wringing her hands and worrying her bottom lip while she paced back and forth. 

She hadn’t told her fathers where she was going. Hadn’t even left a note in fear they would find it too soon and come to stop her. If she never saw them again… Oh, _someone,_ please, if she never saw them again, keep them safe. 

Moments later, Dagon opened the door and stepped out, looking rattled but unharmed. 

“Well, go on then. I’ve been told by his Supreme Evilness to inform Beelzebub of your arrival...and your location. He is not pleased that you went behind the Prince’s back at all.”

“ENTER!” The voice boomed again, causing stones to crumble down from the ceiling.

Annie froze on the spot and Dagon rolled her eyes before grabbing her arm and pulling her into the room.

“Ms. Antigone Crowley, your Unholiness! I will do as you have bid and speak with Prince Beelzebub!” With that, Dagon had closed the door in Annie’s panicked face. 

“Come child. Technically speaking, I have all of eternity. Realistically, I have about five minutes of patience left before I come to my own conclusions about what you’ve come seeking here.” His voice was all around her, inside of her head, and smoothing over her like rich, dark velvet. 

“M-My L-Lord S-Satan,” Annie stuttered, forcing her legs to turn her round to face the shadowed man sat upon a throne made of skulls. 

“Your lord, is it? I don’t recall hearing your prayers… What is it you seek?”

Annie came forward, falling to her knees against her own will before she could come too close to the throne. She had expected a giant, red...well, _giant._ Instead, there was a middle-aged man sneering down at her from the throne—dressed in all black, a pointed hood on his head, kept up by spiraling horns. In place of feet, he did have hooves poking out the bottom of his pressed and neatly ironed pants. 

“I-I wanted to make an offering to you.”

“I already know what it is you offer. What use could a harlot like you possibly be to me?”

Annie’s heart was beating impossibly harder, making it difficult to hear his magnanimous voice.

“S-Sir, I-I believe...you are mistaken,” she panted, her eyes cast down to the dirt beneath her hands.

“You dare to criticize my judgment?” 

“No, Sir. B-But I… I am not here to tempt you into anything or...or try to seduce you.”

“Well! That _is_ a surprise. A pleasant surprise. Had you offered, I would have made Beelzebub slaughter you. The prince is, after all, your mate. Is he not?”

“She—Er, _he_ is, my Lord. S-Sorry, your, erm… Your Supreme Evilness.”

The Devil laughed at her, a velvety, sexy laugh that made her body tremble in immense, shameful pleasure. 

“Tell me what it is you seek. Perhaps we’ll come to an arrangement. You have already left me so pleasantly surprised, my little honorary succubus.”

“I’ve come to…to offer my services instead of my...my father’s. He’s meant to go back to serving you today, but… I-I…” Annie felt her heart constrict, tears streaming from her eyes. “Please, take me instead.”

“Oh, I see. You want to make a deal with the Devil. His soul in exchange for yours?”

“If I may, Sir. I-I will do anything you ask.”

“Any _one_ you mean?” Satan asked her, laughing heartily. 

“If it pleases you,” Annie whispered, tears of blood falling rapidly, stinging her eyes and blinding her.

“And what does that useless, pathetic excuse for a demon think of this offer?”

“He doesn’t know, my Lord,” Annie sobbed.

“He doesn’t _know?”_

“No, Sir… I-I…I know he won’t approve. I just—I don’t want him to be separated from my Papa. They need each other—and Constantine needs both of them,” Annie said, fearing she had said too much. 

“You don’t want him to be separated from the angel? You do realize your father is the greatest insult to my throne that has ever walked the Earth? A demon cavorting with an angel, producing offspring with it...loving it. I have wanted him executed since Armageddon. If I had the time, I would discorporate him myself...slowly. Boil his blood. Rip out his eyes… His little, forked tongue. I could make him eat his own entrails for eternity. I have someone else suffering that fate. Would you like to see?”

“No, Sir,” Annie whispered, swallowing hard. “Dada’s not a good demon, my Lord. But maybe I could be… Maybe I could take his place for you. If you could see fit to allow me… I love my fathers. I will do anything you ask to keep them safe. I-I’m worth at least a thousand of him.”

“A thousand? You think you can outdo the M25?”

“I could...seduce a priest...again. Or—Or the Queen. The Pope?”

“Tell me something, little girl, do you really believe that I would waste my time making a deal with you to spare your father his punishment?”

“If you could see the value… Lord Satan—I implore you! Please!” Annie bowed her head further, pressing her forehead into the dirt and rocks. “Spare my father. He’s useless. He’s not worth your vengeance. I will do his work on his behalf—I’ll bring you as many souls as I can.”

“Will you now?”

“Yes, Sir.” 

“And what do you think Beelzebub will say to this? Your father is his charge after all. In the grand scheme of things, you just went to the CEO to beg for a janitor’s life. Wouldn’t you see fit to ask the Prince of the Janitors to spare him?”

“I… I was afraid she would refuse.”

“And so you went over his head to ask me?” The Devil stood from his throne, hooves scraping on the ground as he stepped forward. Annie felt the trembling in her shoulders grow stronger, her head starting to spin as panic overwhelmed her. “You lie. You lie a lot, little girl. Tell me the truth. Why didn’t you ask Beelzebub to spare him?”

“Because I-I knew she’d say yes. I knew she would agree and I don’t want you to hurt her either.” But he would now, wouldn’t he? He would torture her father and Beelzebub, and probably keep Annie in his servitude regardless. Ending her would be too merciful. 

“Beelzebub has made me aware of his intentions regarding you. In fact, we’ve talked about you to great lengths,” the Devil said, kneeling down at Antigone’s side. His hand fell on the back of her head, stroking her hair slowly, threateningly. “It seems the prince enjoys your spirit. Tell me, Antigone, would you take him in the most unholy of unions?”

“I would… I would give her my life if she asked,” Annie said through her tears, waiting for Satan to fist his hand in her hair and snap her neck. 

“If he asked, would you stay Below for the rest of eternity? Would you stay at his side?”

“I… I would, but I don’t think I could bring you new souls.”

“Ah—a true dilemma. Wouldn’t you say, Beelzebub?”

“It izzz a dilemma,” Beelzebub said. 

Annie’s heart stuttered in her chest. She hadn’t heard the door open or the buzzing of Beelzebub’s many flies. 

“What should we do, Prince? Do we entertain this little scheme?”

“I think we’d get better resultzzz uzzzing his daughter than him. Crowley is washed up. Having a baby ruined hizzzz brain. Antigone izzz fresh.”

“The next Delilah, would you say?” Satan asked, running his hand down Annie’s back as if feeling a hound in a championship dog show. 

“Better. This girl enjoyzzz her work on a perzzonal level.”

“And you don’t mind sharing her with any and all who seek her...assets?” Satan asked, continuing to stroke her hair and spine. 

“Azzz a matter of fact, I enjoy it. What are we to do, my Lord?”

“Let’s make us a deal, shall we?” Satan said, grabbing Annie by her arm in a surprisingly gentle grasp. “Stand before me. Join hands.”

With her head still slightly bowed, Annie obeyed. Beelzebub’s face was so placid—her usual mask of annoyed indifference. 

“Let it stand, from this day forward, the Sin of Lust shall be forever bound to and possessed by our Prince—to torment or torture, devour or destroy.”

_Sounds kinky,_ Annie suddenly thought, her cheeks heating up as she passed another anxious glance to Beelzebub who was giving her a firm, knowing and disapproving stare.

Annie promptly let the thought drain from her head.

“In return for your servitude to Beelzebub and me, I will spare your father for the time being. That can change at any time, at my discretion or your Master’s.”

Master, Annie took it, was Beelzebub. 

“Zzzzo I should tell him the good newzzz,” Beelzebub said, the apathetic look back on her face. 

“Before you do, I would like to clarify this arrangement. From this day forth, we will be enacting a new law—the Persephone Law. You will have three months out of the human calendar year, you are permitted to cease your work here and wherever Beelzebub sees fit to send you, and you may return home. However, in that time, your father _will_ be required to go to work in your place—though, of course, not in the same capacity,” Satan said, laughing at his own joke. Annie, her heart shattering, could not see fit to feel the same humor. “He may visit you here any time that he like, but his safety is not guaranteed. This is not negotiable.”

With a wave of his hand, a thick book appeared in his palm and Satan opened it to a yellowed page and held it forward.

“Make your mark.” 

Antigone, shedding a few final tears, scrawled her name on the page with the tip of her finger—blood dripping from it the moment she made contact. 

“And you,” Satan said, moving the book to be before Beelzebub. 

She scrawled her sigil, then waited patiently as Satan flipped back a few pages. 

“And here, if you would be so kind,” the Devil said, laughing again. Beelzebub signed again on this other page which, Annie recognized, already bore her sigil higher up on the document. “This effectively signifies Antigone, daughter of Crowley, as your property and yours alone. She has replaced Michael in the role of your princess and wife. Do with her as you see fit. If she disobeys, bring me her father. We’ll see to it that it won’t happen again.”

“Of courzzzze,” Beelzebub said, blinking slowly while the flies buzzed around her head. 

“My Lord?” Annie stammered, struggling to find her voice—afraid that she would be reprimanded for speaking out of turn. 

“Yes, my child?” Satan asked, grinning maniacally. It was too easy, Annie realized. Too simple. There would be more to it, in time, than just being prevented from ever seeing her father above ground again. 

“May I at least return home to say goodbye? To my fathers and Constantine?”

“Constantine?” Asked the Devil.

“Crowley’s zzzzon. The one he lozzzt hizz mind over,” Beelzebub clarified. 

“Ah. I see. That is up to you, Prince. She is your responsibility.”

“I zzzee no harm in it. I have to go there anyway to share the newzzz. I will bring her to collect her thingzzz and we’ll be on our way, back to you, your Supreme Evilnezzz.”

“I expect great things from the both of you. I will admit...I much prefer this union. I think you will encourage each other to do awful, wretched things,” the Devil said, returning to his throne as a dark, booming laughed echoed through the room.

Annie would have been frozen in place for all eternity if not for Beelzebub’s hand, still wrapped lovingly around her own. She didn’t know what to expect when the door closed behind them, when they were marching up the stairs alone together, but getting pushed into the wall by Beelzebub’s hungry mouth was not it. She kissed back, too shocked to resist—too devastated and sad to turn away from the only comfort she could find in the stinking pits of Hell. 

“How thozzze two idiotzz made such a zzzmart and rezourzzeful daughter is beyond me,” Beelzebub said, still pressing Annie to the wall with her body. “You did zzzo well. He’zzz imprezzed with you.”

“Y-You were nervous,” Annie said, licking her lips—tasting the faintest bit of rot and slime. “I could tell by your buzzing.”

“He’zzz Zzzatan. Do you know what he doezzz to demonzz who interrupt him?” Beelzebub kissed her rather than giving her time to answer.

“Are we—Are we married?” Annie asked, panting for air she didn’t need after their lips parted.

“We are an unholy matrimony. Curzzed by Zzatan himzelf. My zzzzecond document waz to deem my union to Michael illegitimate.”

Annie wanted to ask something flirty like ‘how ought we celebrate?’ and maybe even tack on something regarding Beelzebub serving as her ‘Master,’ but she she opened her mouth to speak, a sob broke out instead. 

“There, there. It’zzz not zzo bad. Your fatherzzz will underzztand. It might even bring them together. Besidezzz, it’zzz time you moved out anyway. Where better than with me?”

Annie nodded, unable to speak, and buried her face in the Prince’s shoulder in the dark isolation of the stairwell. Beelzebub, notoriously bad at offering comfort, held her and allowed her to cry, allowed the feelings to crash around her. 

“It won’t be so bad,” Beelzebub said, her own nerves clearly recovering as her buzzing at nearly disappeared completely. “As your husband and master...I can allow you to visit sometimes in between your three months of reaping. It’s not like you won’t ever see Crowley again.”

“Dada will be devastated regardless,” Annie sniffled, wiping her eyes with her free hand—her other nestled in Beelzebub’s. 

“Daughters get married and move out. It’s life. He can cope. Besides, he needs more excuses to spend all his time with that baby.”

“Ugh—don’t remind me,” Annie said, rubbing at her left eye where an eyelash had become stuck. 

Beelzebub snapped her fingers and the eyelash was miraculously gone.

“I can’t decide if it’s peculiar or not, the way he dotes on that child. He is absolutely obsessed.”

“Papa says it’s because of the trauma.”

“It’s something else. The boy has...an air about him. I can’t place what. It must be his sin.”

“Well, I am Lust and I never had that effect on either of them.”

“They’re also idiotzzz,” Beelzebub said, opening the door to her living quarters—their living quarters now. “We’ll wait here until you’re in control of yourself. Is that alright? I cannot let you stay for long. They will be paying attention and I do not feel up to eating my own entrails for all of eternity just so that serpent can convince you to change your mind. Alright, my love?” The demon prince asked, causing Annie’s head to shoot up in surprise. 

Love?

Annie had never expected the word to cross the demon’s lips, especially not in connection to sentiments tied to her. 

Love… Not hate, not loathe, not another bitter antonym for the word Annie so longed to hear. Just love. _Her_ love.

“You love me,” Annie said.

“Well don’t go making an accusation of it, child. I braved the wrath of Satan for you. Surely that speaks enough. Besides, it...slipped. It zzzlipped out.”

Annie could tell, through her renewed tears and the dim lights of the entrance room, Beelzebub’s cheeks were flushing red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are the best!! Thank you so much for reading! More will be up soon!


	13. Chapter 13

Crowley was sitting alone at the table in the dining room, holding onto a cup of coffee from which he’d yet to take a sip. It was getting close to dark outside and he’d yet to see Annie, and he’d yet to be visited by Beelzebub. 

Was he wrong to think it would happen an exact decade from the date of Constantine’s birth? He guessed he could be… Or perhaps Beelzebub had just forgotten? Got distracted trying to make hatchlings with Crowley’s little girl?

“My dear?” Aziraphale asked, poking his head into the room. 

“What is it, Angel?” Crowley asked, lifting his cup but still not taking a drink.

“Annie is...walking up the front path. Beelzebub is with her.”

Crowley felt his heart fracture as he pushed himself up onto his feet. He tried to take a sip of the coffee, but found he couldn’t do it. He set the cup down and walked toward Aziraphale, wanting to sidestep him and make his way to the door. He couldn’t do it, though. Aziraphale was looking at him, close to tears, and Crowley couldn’t take it.

He paused, looking down at the angel a moment before leaning into him, placing his hands on Aziraphale’s hips and ducking down to kiss him. A little shiver of warmth slid down into his stomach. Oh, he’d been missing this. He’d been longing for this. Why, why did he spend a decade avoiding it? Why did he spend a decade afraid to show Aziraphale how much he needed him—really needed him in all the worst ways possible? 

“I love you, Angel,” Crowley whispered, pulling away long before he was ready to let go.

Aziraphale stumbled a bit, as if he had been trying to lean into Crowley’s touch even as he walked away.

They approached the door together, but Crowley opened it just before Annie could do it herself.

“Well, look who decided to show up. You missed the cake,” Crowley said.

“There’s still some in the fridge, my dear,” Aziraphale said, trying to smile.

“I will take zzzome,” Beelzebub said, pushing his way inside. That stupid fly on his head was rubbing its hands together again and Crowley was overwhelmed with the desire to rip them off.

Probably not the best idea, no matter how badly Crowley wished he could just cease to exist and put this whole thing behind him. 

“Hi, Dada,” Annie said, wrapping her arms around Crowley and squeezing him tightly. He was taken aback for a moment, concerned by the tenderness and urgency in the embrace. Had something happened? Or had Beelzebub simply explained the situation to her as some kind of fucked up pillow talk?

“Is everything alright?” Crowley asked, holding Annie a little closer as she kissed his cheek. 

“I just love you so much, Dada. So much. I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice shaking as she pulled away.

“Sorry?” Crowley asked, following her as she made her way into the kitchen where Aziraphale was already cutting up slices of their son’s birthday cake to give to the prince. That stupid fucking fly had icing on its hands. 

“How big of a piece would you like, Annie—darling? What’s the matter?” Aziraphale asked, setting down the plate in his hand just as Beelzebub reached for it, leaving the prince buzzing irritably as he picked it up from the counter. 

“I… Papa, I’m sorry,” Annie said to him as well, sobbing and grabbing her angel father into a tearful hug. 

Crowley felt a sick realization twist at his stomach, and by the look on Aziraphale’s face, the angel had come to the same conclusion. 

“Oh, Annie—my Annie… What is it? What’s happened?” Aziraphale asked, patting her head while looking to Crowley desperately. “Is...Is it an egg?” He whispered, looking at Beelzebub who was eating the cake with his damned hands like an animal, pretending he didn’t see or hear what was going on. Every now and then, he would hand a chunk of the cake up to the fly on his head—probably the only demon in all of history who fed its familiar at all.

“No, Papa. I… I-I couldn’t let them take Dada away from you. He loves you so much and Connie needs both of you so I… I’m going. I’m going in his place.”

Crowley heard his world crash around him, heard it crack and rip and shatter to his feet. Annie? Annie was going?

“No—Annie, we talked about this, your father and I. It’s okay. It’ll be good for him to go back to his roots. He needs out of the house anyway, right, love?” Aziraphale asked, looking to Crowley frantically.

“No, Papa,” Annie cried. “I’ve already agreed. It’s done.”

“She is my wife,” Beelzebub said, mouth full of cake. “Satan is calling it Persephone’s Law.”

The Lord of the Flies was talking, but Crowley’s eyes were fixed on his daughter who, somehow, seemed to be growing farther and farther away from him whilst still standing still. His eyes were burning behind his sunglasses while red blood soaked into Aziraphale’s gray jumper from Annie’s cheeks. 

“Crowley! I am speaking to you!”

“Don’t,” Annie whispered, trying to sound harsh but only coming off like an upset, frightened child. 

“I can’t...hear you,” Crowley said, words not forming properly in his mouth. 

Wife? Annie was someone’s wife? She was _Beelzebub’s_ wife? Taking over for Michael? Married to the ‘mother’ of the monster Wrath who’d tried to kill her? Annie was taking his place, working for Beelzebub and doing Satan’s bidding? How? How could this have happened? 

“Persephone’s Law, Crowley,” Beelzebub reiterated. “Nine months out of the human year, Annie will be working for me—doing your job, in your place, so you may stay here and raise your son with the angel. Then, three months, she will be allowed to come home. But during that time, you _will_ return to work.”

“So I can’t see her at all. That’s what you’re telling me. I can’t see my daughter.”

“You may visit her in Hell any time you like. I can’t promise your safety, but you may come. _He_ cannot,” Beelzebub added, glowering at Aziraphale who was shaking with tears though not yet breaking with sobs. 

“So I can...never see her again. That was the choice you made,” he said, looking to Annie through thick and stinging tears of blood. “You traded me for _him.”_

“No!” Annie cried, leaving Aziraphale and trying to open her arms to embrace Crowley who backed away. 

He had thought earlier that this was the worst day of his entire life—little did he know how much worse it had been about to become.

“Dada, please! Please understand! You _need_ Papa. You _need_ Constantine. I love you. I love you too much to see it all taken from you.”

“I needed you too!” Crowley snapped, embarrassed to be coming apart while Beelzebub stood there eating cake and watching them like a show. “How could you do this? How could you do this without even asking me!?”

“I didn’t have time! I did what I had to… For you and Papa. We’ll still see each other. It’ll… It’ll be like I moved out of the country. It’ll be like I moved to America or China or the Caribbean. I promise it’ll be alright!”

Crowley couldn’t even form the words to argue. His eyes were burning so badly he couldn’t even keep them open. He was preparing himself to scream, the pain and rage twisting his heart into something ugly, but then Constantine burst into the room.

“Dad! Dad, Tommy Mayhew showed me this cool trick! Look, Dada, look!” The little boy was tugging on his pant leg and Crowley could only look down at him in agony. 

Would he leave too? Would he grow up and decide Hell had more to offer and simply decide on a whim to run away?

“Dad, look!”

“Not now, Constantine. Go play outside,” Crowley said through gritted teeth. He wanted to become absorbed in the game. He wanted to pick up his son and shut out the rest of the world, but he couldn’t. Annie was crying. Aziraphale was crying… That fucking fly was eating his son’s birthday cake!

“But Dada, look! It’ll only take a second!” 

“I’ll watch,” Beelzebub said, suddenly appearing at Crowley’s side and kneeling down before his child. Crowley wanted to kick at him, chase him away, keep his son safe from the monster that had come solely for the purpose of stealing Annie away forever. “Can you show me while your Dada talkzzz to Annie?”

“Okay, okay! Watch!”

Whatever little trick he pulled, Beelzebub oo’d and aww’d while Crowley stared at his daughter. 

“You can’t do this to me,” Crowley said, his voice shaking. “Annie, please. You can’t do this.”

“I already signed my name, Dada. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Why would you do this? I’ve tried so hard to make you understand—to make you see… Hell’s not some paradise, Annie. This man—this _demon,_ he doesn’t _care_ about you. Please—please, don’t sign your life away to him and Satan. It’s not _worth it_ to spare me—to keep me and your father together.”

“Dada, you’re wrong—”

“He’ll go crazy without you,” Crowley tried, hoping that using Aziraphale might sway her. Aziraphale was the favorite parent. He was the angel—he had to be. How could Annie agree to something that would cause him so much pain? “It’s you he needs, not me. You don’t need to sacrifice everything to keep us together.”

“Dada, stop! Papa loves you—you _love_ each other. Beelzebub and I _love_ each other—”

“He can’t love you!” Crowley snapped, not caring that he felt the fly’s eyes on him.

“Crowley, that’s not—” Aziraphale tried to interject, but Crowley raised a hand to silence him. 

“She _does,_ Dada. Beelz—”

“He _can’t!_ Demons can’t love and _you can’t love them!_ It’s our curse! Beelzebub taught me that! He doesn’t love you and you don’t love him any more than your father loves me!” 

His daughter struck him. Struck him hard while tears of crimson blood poured down from her eyes.

“Don’t you _ever_ say anything like that to me again,” Annie said, voice wavering with tears. “Dada, you’re _sick._ You’ve been sick since you had Connie and you’re not going to put this on me. Papa loves you— _I_ love you. Don’t you dare say we don’t! Don’t you _dare_ say that to me _ever_ again. I have spent my whole life catering to you, giving you everything in me I had to give in the vain _hope_ it might get through, but it’s never enough. _Beelzebub_ taught me that. It’s not that demons can’t love, Dada—it’s that they can’t accept it. Just like Papa told me. You don’t know how to accept it and you fight it and you deny it—but that doesn’t make it fake. I love you. Papa loves you. Constantine _loves_ you. I made this decision so I could _save_ you—because I _love_ you. Because I love Papa. Because I love Constantine! I don’t want to see my family ripped apart when _this_ arrangement keeps you here with Papa, where you _need to be,_ and I get to be with Beelzebub. Where I _want to be.”_

Crowley couldn’t talk. He hadn’t felt so disconnect from his body since having Constantine. Words couldn’t describe his pain or even begin to show it. She spoke words of love, and all he felt was her anger—her abandonment. She was leaving. She _wanted_ to go. She wanted to leave him here with the angel he’d just renounced. 

She said something to him, then walked away and went upstairs with Beelzebub and Constantine who trailed after them—wanting included in their “fun.” Crowley stayed stunned, in the doorway of the kitchen, feeling so lost—feeling blind and helpless. He had fangs instead of teeth, a forked tongue flicking restlessly inside his mouth, and scales overcoming his hands and neck. He could feel them spreading.

“My… My dear? Are you alright?” 

And there was Aziraphale, trying to be tender with him—trying to touch him when Crowley knew all he deserved was another slap to the face for what he’d dared to say. 

“I forgive you,” Aziraphale said, his hand rubbing Crowley’s back. It felt like it was happening to someone else. It felt as if the angel were speaking to someone else. “I didn’t realize… I hadn’t realized you’d been feeling that way...about me. I-I’ll… If you could tell me why—if you could help me understand, I… Crowley, I’d do anything to take that pain from you. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Crowley couldn’t talk. 

Annie came downstairs with bags packed—Beelzebub carrying two of them without complaint. Connie apparently stayed up in his room or Annie’s. Crowley wasn’t sure.

Annie hugged Aziraphale who cried the instant she let go—his sobs shocking Crowley a bit out of his stupor. 

“I love you, Dada,” she said, hugging him and kissing his cheek despite his tears of blood. 

It took all of his effort, every last bit of his willpower, to get back into his body long enough to hug her back—squeezing too tightly, because he was a serpent and that was all he knew how to do: find warmth and cling to it, squeeze the life out of it. 

“Please, please, _please_ take care of Papa. Don’t just curl up and waste away. You’re worth more than that. I love you so much.”

“I love you, Annie,” he said, the words tangling in his mouth while the Lord of the Flies stared at him from the front doorway, looking weighed down by the heavy suitcases. 

“I know—I’ll always know that,” she said, kissing his cheek again before breaking his heart and pulling away. “Bye, Connie!” She called up the stairs before going to stand at Beelzebub’s side.

From the top of the steps, Connie called down to her, “Bye-bye!”

Again, Crowley felt himself slip away from his body, watching it play out as if it were happening to someone else. 

There was a hollowness in his chest once the prince and his daughter had left, shoulder to shoulder.

There had been a tenderness in the way Beelzebub treated Annie, an affection in the way he rubbed her shoulder and guided her to the door which Crowley held open for them. For a moment, Crowley had thought about something Annie had said to him what felt like eons ago. Something along the lines of “I think she’s gone soft.” Perhaps that was true. Perhaps there was some weight to that claim. After all, it was very much unlike the Beelzebub Crowley knew to pause on his way out the door, to look Crowley in the eye with an expression of revolting, partially disguised, _pity._

“I would imagine…if you could spend six millennia up here and find enough time to fraternize with an angel, Antigone might find the time to drop by once in a while without my knowing to visit a _demon._ For the record, it wasn’t up to me,” he said, and then continued on down the path while Annie looked over her shoulder a waved a forlorn goodbye.

When he closed the door, it felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room, all the life and joy that had once lived inside the walls blown out like a candle. 

Had he really said all those awful things? Had he really exposed that hidden, ugly side of himself? 

He didn’t know how long he stood there staring at the closed door before he was drawn back into the living room where the angel was sitting, weeping into his hands while Constantine played with toy cars at his feet. Every now and then he’d run the little toy over Aziraphale’s foot or up to his knee, but the angel didn’t acknowledge him. 

Crowley wasn’t sure what to do with himself now. He had been mentally preparing himself for months to leave the angel, to leave his family, and go back to working, go back to being who knows where for who knows how long. He had never in his life once imagined that Annie would take his place, that Annie might disappear for more than a week or two at most and leave him behind, waiting. 

He wasn’t sure whether he should feel sorry or proud. 

“Dad? Play race cars with me,” Constantine said, looking up at him as Crowley sat down beside Aziraphale on the couch.

“Alright,” Crowley whispered, ashamed of how his voice trembled. Having little strength to move his own limbs, Crowley instead raced a small, blue car across the floor with his mind while Constantine pushed his own car alongside it. Every time, Crowley let him win until Connie tired of the game and went upstairs to his room to find something else of interest. “Angel? Are you… Are you okay?” Crowley asked, not sure what else to say, not sure how else to talk about what had happened.

He felt guilty for how he’d acted, for how he’d bared the very bones of his sick and twisted thoughts—telling Aziraphale that he wanted to leave and would be better if he did. He had been trying to push the angel away, make the angel dislike him at the very least if not hate him entirely, so it wouldn’t be so hard on them when he was away. Now, he’d caused the damage and was forced to stay put. Forced to cope with what he’d done and what Annie had, on her own, decided.

“Oh… Oh!” Aziraphale cried, a mournful noise that rattled the serpent to his core. How he wished Aziraphale could turn into a snake and be carried along with him, how he wished he could take the angel’s pain and condense it down—mute it into the smallest of aches. Around them, bonsai trees and succulents started wilting and Crowley hadn’t the strength to scream them back into line.

God, how he wished he could take back the awful, heartless words he’d said.

“Wish I knew where she got that idea…” Crowley choked out, desperate to cover the sound of Aziraphale’s cries. “Going in my place. I never wanted that for her. Always hoped she’d be a little…more like you.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale cried, lifting his head from his hands and fixing the demon with a look so full of pain that Crowley ducked his head to escape it. He was responsible for all it—every last bit of it. “I think it was Beelzebub. I think she’s been planning it for years. I just never thought…” He paused to sniffle and wipe his cheeks on the heels of his hands. “I never realized she might make the arrangement so permanent. I knew she would eventually try to run away to be with that _demon_ but I never thought in my wildest dreams she would sign herself over to the Beast.”

Crowley moved a little closer on the couch, wanting offer comfort he had no right to extend. How could he think Aziraphale wanted closeness with him after what he’d said?

“Even I didn’t do that… I mean, I Fell, but…never signed the book. Never really pledged myself to do his bidding. It just sort of went with the territory. I can’t even imagine…what all she’s agreed to.”

“No… I can’t either.”

They sat quietly together, slowly creeping closer to one another as the hours bled on—dusk to blue, inky dawn.

“Do you suppose…she will take care of Annie?” Aziraphale asked, his hand resting on Crowley’s knee.

“Beelzebub? Yeah, sure…”

“What did she say to you? I heard her talking to you on her way out. What did she say?”

“Said if I could find time when I was working to fraternize with you, then Annie would probably find time to visit us without anyone being aware.” Beside him, he felt a small bit of the angel’s grace return—like the soft warmth of sunlight coming in through a window.

“I suppose that’s true, isn’t it? Why, perhaps she’ll even have work here in South Downs a time or two. All’s not lost, is it?” He asked, trying to smile though it didn’t reach his eyes. 

“Well, you get to see her for three months out of the year. I get to be the one sent off when you do,” Crowley reminded him. “Guess that makes sense. It’s not like demons to be charitable. They still want their revenge on me…at least this is the way they’re taking it. I can think of about a hundred things that could be much worse.”

Aziraphale sighed and leaned over onto his shoulder, making Crowley stiffen. He hadn’t been expecting it, but slowly relaxed into the touch—his head coming to rest against the angel’s.

“Do you really think that, because you’re a demon, I don’t love you?” Aziraphale asked, sounding far away and tired.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Crowley answered.

“So it is true...”

Crowley expected Aziraphale to pull away, but he didn’t. In fact, he nestled closer. 

“Is it because I left you alone?” He sounded so guilty, so ashamed, and it made Crowley’s stomach flip.

“I… I think I’ve always felt that way, Angel. It’s not your fault.”

“If I ever gave you reason to entertain those awful doubts, it is my fault… To think, this whole time, you’ve felt that I couldn’t… I-I… I adore you. I love you. I’ve always loved you, no matter what you are. I loved you in Eden, when I shielded you from the rain. I loved you in Rome and Paris and London… Tadfield even. I’m sorry if I didn’t show it. Six-thousand years is a long time to repress one’s feelings. It must also have been a long time to convince oneself that...that they were unworthy. Yes?”

“Yes,” Crowley answered, the word leaving a bitter taste in his mouth—a confession he wasn’t ready to make. A confession he’d cornered himself into making. “Did… Did I really make Annie… Cater to me?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale sighed heavily and wrapped his arm protectively around Crowley’s shoulders—answering more than enough with his gesture.

“You spent a lot of time as a serpent when she was too young to understand why. She really did tell me...that she thought you didn’t like her. I told her she was wrong, that you loved her _and_ liked her. If… If I’d had a choice, Crowley, I wouldn’t have picked that time for us to have a baby. Not that I would ever question God’s will, but… You were still so...so out of sorts. I love Annie, but the timing could have been better.”

“Maybe God sent her to fix me and I ruined it—”

“You haven’t ruined anything. You never have. Not a single one of us are perfect. I certainly am not...but you love me anyway. Yes?” The way it sounded like a question, like a real question—like Aziraphale doubted that he did—made Crowley’s already devastated heart shatter completely. 

“Of course,” he said, voice shuddering as he nestled impossibly closer on the couch, burrowing into Aziraphale’s side and pressing his face into the crook of his neck. “Always. Forever. Since Eden—forever.”

Aziraphale pressed a kiss to the top of his head and Crowley felt a shiver go through his body, so many weights bearing down on him it was a miracle his body didn’t shatter along with his heart.

“I’ll do better for Constantine,” he said, voice breaking.

“Darling, you already have. Annie was wrong to imply you hadn’t. You’ve only ever been attentive to him. Why—you hardly set him down for a minute until he turned seven. Connie knows you love him and so do I.” Again, Aziraphale kissed the top of his head—working so hard to offer comfort when he was the one who deserved it most. 

“I… I’m sorry I said that about you,” Crowley choked out, squeezing his eyes shut as they burned with more tears. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Hush. I told you, I forgive you. We’ll work on it. Please, just talk to me and we’ll work on it. I don’t believe for a moment that anything Beelzebub says about demons is true. I don’t want you to put any weight into it at all. You can love and I can love you. And I do. I do...” Aziraphale lifted his hand to stroke Crowley’s cheek, slowly miracling the tears away before shifting their positions so he could press a kiss to the corner of Crowley’s mouth. 

Crowley adjusted himself the smallest bit so he could make their lips meet, kissing him softly at first and then making it deeper as the comfort overwhelmed him. He missed this. He _needed_ this—needed Aziraphale, needed to feel wanted, needed to feel the angel’s love. He needed to feel anything except the shattered remains of his heart his daughter left behind.

“Could I clean your wings for you, darling? It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Aziraphale asked, offering something so far from what Crowley deserved. 

It both broke him and healed him as he nodded against Aziraphale’s chest, moving to lay atop him, moving to open his wings and shivering as the angel preened them. 

“I’m so happy they’re growing in thicker now. I worried for you when you were expecting… Your wings were absolutely dreadful. I wanted so badly to preen for you—I wanted to comfort you, but every feather I touched fell out. I’m so happy to see them looking so healthy now.” He was massaging the bow of Crowley’s left wing, his fingertips working through the soft, downy layers. “Do you… Oh, but I suppose I shouldn’t ask.”

“What?” Crowley asked, pulling off his sunglasses in order to bury his face fully in Aziraphale’s neck. 

“I… I was wondering if Beelzebub would know to help preen for Annie… Do you suppose she remembers having wings of her own?”

“Doubt it,” Crowley mumbled. “But he’d better figure it out if he knows what’s good for him. I hope he knows if he lets anyone Down There hurt her, I’m sending you in with Holy Water.”

Aziraphale chuckled softly, sadly, and moved his fingers down the wing. 

And so the new arrangement between Crowley and Hell began and continued, uninterrupted and uneventful—for the most part—for the better part of twenty years.


	14. Chapter 14

Crowley slithered along the floors of Hell, tripping demons left and right and biting the one who dared step on him.

Annie had been living here for almost seven months and he was unable to keep himself above ground any longer. He missed her. He loved her. He needed to see her. He had to make sure Beelzebub hadn’t hurt her or disrespected her in any way. He knew far too well how many men trapped vulnerable girls in marriages just to show their ugly sides after the contracts had been signed.

Truthfully, Crowley was preparing to start a fight, already gearing himself up to battle to the death. He just had to get to Beelzebub and Annie’s quarters in Hell in one piece first. So far, the demons he tripped didn’t pay him much mind besides to shout at him and stumble off to do their jobs. He hadn’t seen Hastur or Dagon yet and that was good.

He was feeling rather good about himself as he reached the door to Beelzebub’s flat/mansion/living space in the tunnels of Hell, that was until he realized a serpent couldn’t knock on the door and he wasn’t able to will it open.

Crowley had no choice but to turn into a man and raise his fist to knock, hiding his hand quickly in his pocket to disguise the way it shook. 

It took a long time before a demon with a possum on his head opened the door.

“State your business or move the fuck on,” he said, very pleasantly. 

“I’m here to see my daughter. Antigone,” he said, because demons could sometimes be stupid enough to forget who they served. Lord (literally) knows Crowley certainly had a time or two.

“Of course.” The demon opened the door and gestured Crowley inside. 

Crowley had never been in Beelzebub’s or any member of the Dark Council’s quarters before, but he felt that something was certainly amiss for a flat in Hell. Firstly, the floor was trembling with bass and Crowley could hear muffled music as if he were standing on the sidewalk outside a nightclub in the city. Demons loved sin and noise, but such enjoyable things weren’t permitted in Hell. Demons weren’t Down Here to play—they were Down Here to work.

But maybe not if you were the Prince. 

“It’s Tuesday,” the possum demon said. 

“Yes, I noticed,” Crowley said, taking off his sunglasses as he was led down a dim hallway—the music getting louder. He could hear hollering—and not the bad kind (good kind?).

“Things been changing since Lady Agony came down.”

Was that what they were calling his daughter now? Lady Agony? How awful—how pathetic. Could they really not be any more creative?

They reached a closed door which rattled violently from the force of the bass and music behind it. So many voices on the other side were hollering and cheering. It really, really sounded like a nightclub in the city.

The demon knocked on the door though there was no way in Hell anyone on the other side heard it, then pushed it open and stepped in to announce, “Demon Crowley, here for Lady Agony!” Crowley was gestured into the crowded, stinking, sweltering hot room and the door closed behind him.

Demons were dancing, well...squirming rhythmically together under flickering colored light bulbs which hung on frayed wires from the ceiling. Beelzebub was siting on a throne far across the room, sipping from a golden chalice while reading a document in his lap—giving no indication that he’d heard the possum demon announce a visitor. 

Crowley was left baffled, looking this way and that at the crowd of demons really _living it up_ for what had to be the first dance party Hell had ever thrown.

At least to the extent of Crowley’s knowledge. 

Was that what the possum had meant by “It’s Tuesday”?

In the hoard of wiggling, squirming demons, Crowley found Dagon flopping around, then Hastur flailing—grinning madly—at another demon who was mirroring his over-eager hand gestures. Demons were cackling, clapping, jeering, shouting slurs of all kinds in joy.

And then there was Annie, dancing in the middle of them—popping in and out of view while shaking all of her, ahem, assets which were only slightly covered by a mini dress made of golden coins that jingled and shimmered with each motion. 

She was smiling, making contact with all the demons around here—calling their attention with a simple touch. They would wriggle around, trying to dance with her, and she would laugh and encourage them with her hip-rolling dance moves—her arms over her head, wrists curling and twisting in time with the beat. 

They loved her. They _adored_ her. She was having the time of her life…

He’d been above ground panicking, worrying that she was being tortured and tormented, abused at the very least, and here she was partying. In Hell!

He had expected to find Beelzebub to be the jealous lover, preventing Annie from engaging in her constant affairs—but alas, he just sat on his throne, drinking and going over reports. 

Crowley leaned back against the wall, lost in thought while watching his daughter and the demons dance. This was not the Hell he remembered.

He didn’t know how long he stood there, feeling the bass rumble up and down his spine, before Annie’s eyes fell on him. She had been dancing with Dagon who was slowly but surely learning to poorly imitate Annie’s moves. As soon as he turned her head in his direction, he knew he’d been spotted. Her eyes lit up brighter than the shimmering bulbs overhead. 

He saw her mouth form “Dada” though he couldn’t hear it, and then she sprinted for him—leaving a confused Dagon behind who flopped around a moment, then started squirming around with Hastur who was laughing gaily. 

This was just so wrong…

He didn’t have long to dwell on it before Annie had crashed into him, her arms wrapped around his neck and her lips pressing kiss after kiss after kiss to his cheeks and his forehead. He had a half a mind to wonder where her lips had been prior to putting them all over his face—then realized he didn’t want to know. 

“Dada, you came to visit!”

“Of course,” he said, hugging her and then prying her away from him just to make her stop kissing his cheeks in her excitement. 

“How—How are you? How are things? How is Papa?” She asked, panting and still bopping her head to the music. He could barely hear her.

“Fine. Everyone’s fine. I see you’re having the time of your life… With Hastur.” He inclined his head toward the dance floor and Annie rolled her eyes.

“Ughh. Beelzebuzz made me invite him.” Beelzebuzz… Wow. A demon had literally been discorporated for calling him that once. Now Annie used it as a pet name. Hell had changed. “His numbers are good so he gets to come to the dance party.”

“You started this? The dance party?”

“I told Beelz I wanted to liven the place up,” Annie said, turning to look over the party with her hands on her hips. “She said no, so I did the thing she likes that you don’t want to know about and asked again. She said fine, but she has to supervise. At first, no one would dance so I was dancing all alone. I got Dagon to dance and everyone else felt better after she didn’t get smacked down by Bzz-Bzz.” 

A demon had been made to eat his own entrails for buzzing at the prince. Again, Annie used it as a pet name. Crowley kept expecting the Beelzebub to get down from his throne and come smack her, but he was still drinking and reading.

“He lets you call him Buzz-Buzz?”

“Not Buzz-Buzz, Bzz-Bzz. Not in front of the Dark Council and not outside the quarters. She’s shy.”

“What happens if you do?” Crowley asked, trying not to sound intrigued.

“I don’t,” Annie said, shrugging and smiling. “I wouldn’t embarrass her like that. She would get upset!” She loved that prince. She really loved him… 

It made Crowley’s head spin. How could she love Beelzebub? He was despicable and violent and awful and there was Crowley’s sweet Annie calling him “Bzz-Bzz” with affection glittering in her eyes.

It made Crowley start to wonder if it wasn’t that improbable for Aziraphale to love him after all.

“Dada, do you want to come in and have something to drink? Beelz has wine for me I can share.”

“Yes—Yeah, sure,” Crowley said, noticing how some of the writhing demons were watching them. “I think your party is missing you though.”

“Oh, Dada, they miss me even when I’m with them. They can dance without me for a little while. C’mon!” Annie grabbed his hand and led him through the party to a door just past Beelzebub’s throne.

His boss raised his gaze from the papers he was reading to fix Crowley with a cold stare as he passed by.

“Antigone,” Beelzebub said, firmly—somehow resonating over the music though only Annie looked up.

“Hm?”

“Bring me more wine,” he said, holding out his chalice for Annie to take. 

“Course, Bzz,” Annie said, smirking as Beelzebub glowered at her.

She led Crowley through the door to a sitting room and told him to sit while she disappeared into another room. She came back to set a bottle of wine and two glasses on the coffee table, then disappeared and came back with Beelzebub’s chalice—sipping from it before opening the door and disappearing back into the party a moment. When she returned, she was giggling—her cheeks tinted red.

“She knew I drank it,” Annie said, sitting down beside her father and chuckling as she uncorked their bottle. “She’ll let me drink out of the same bottle as her, but she’s weird about sharing her cup.”

“It’s probably the chalice,” Crowley said, accepting the glass Annie handed him. “You have to be careful with Hellish artifacts.”

“Now you sound like Beelzebuzz,” Annie said, taking a drink from her glass. 

“He’s good to you then? Beelzebub?”

“Oh, yes! I can see why you were worried—she is very brutal to the demons who don’t do what she asks. She’s vicious! But… Dada, would you hate me if I told you...sometimes, it’s kinda hot.”

“Oh, Annie! Gross—I don’t want to know that!” Crowley hissed, taking a long drunk from his glass. 

“Don’t tell Papa, okay?”

“I’m not telling your father anything about how you get your rocks off! That’s disgusting. I don’t want to know these things!”

“How is Papa? Is he doing okay? Connie’s not giving him too much trouble?”

“He’s alright. He misses you.”

“Aw. I miss Papa too,” she said, sipping her wine and wiggling into the couch, folding her feet underneath her. “It’s weird not coming home you two every night.”

“Every night? More like one night a week. Unless you mean when you were a baby,” Crowley said, trying to force humor into his voice. “I miss you, Annie.”

“I miss you, too, Dada. Are you doing okay?”

“Me? I’m fine. I’m not the one living in Hell, being sent out tempting.”

“It’s really not so bad. I only go out a few weeks at a time. Beelzebub likes me being at home. She’s _very_ traditional. She wants me more for a housewife but Lord Satan won’t allow it.” 

It made Crowley shudder to hear his daughter call Satan her Lord. 

“How is Connie doing?”

“He’s fine. He asks about you every day.”

“Aw. Precious thing,” she said, drinking her wine and wiggling around again. “Beelz and I want an egg together.”

“Is that so?” He asked, shuddering internally at the idea of his daughter reproducing with the Lord of the Flies. What would that child come out like?

“Yes. But that means being more careful about who my partners are and when. Which isn’t really my style… But enough about that—what about you and Papa? Any news for you? Any hatchlings with Papa yet?”

“Wh-What? No—Annie, now’s hardly the time. Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know—loss makes people crazy. I thought maybe you and Papa would... _you know.”_

“Having Connie almost ruined me… I can’t go through that again.”

“Not you! Papa! Can you imagine? Papa, expecting.”

“Annie… Now’s not… I-I’m not…” Not fit, was what he wanted to say. He wasn’t fit to raise Connie let alone another hatchling, whether Aziraphale carried it or not. 

“Oh, Dada,” Annie said, cooing at him somewhat condescendingly as she leaned over to rest her head on his shoulder.

“So, tell me about these dance parties. How long’s that been going on?”

“Since I got down here. The demons really seem to like them and it lets me and Beelz meet new people.”

“Beelzebub knows all these demons already.”

“Not like _that,_ Dada. We meet new people and if Beelz likes them and _I_ like them—”

“I don’t want to know that,” Crowley said, feeling sick to his stomach. His little girl… Where had she gone? Where had he gone wrong?

“Well, you asked how I’ve been,” Annie said, smiling at him around the rim of her wineglass. “That’s how I’ve been. It’s been a lot of fun for the most part. The demons love me and Beelz makes sure no one puts hands on me if I don’t want them to.”

“And then what? He shashes your egg when it’s not his?” Crowley hissed, sinking into the couch. 

“She’s a demon—it’s...it’s probably going to happen a time or two.”

“What, you think if your father had a kid that wasn’t mine, I’d smash it?”

“Of course not! You’re not like Beelz! When are you going to realize that you don’t belong down here? You’re not like Beelzebub or Dagon or any of them. Don’t you see that’s why I had to go and not you?”

“You didn’t _have_ to—”

“But you and Papa are doing better now, aren’t you?”

“We miss you, Annie,” Crowley answered.

“Dada… You had to know that at some point, I was going to leave home. Right? Wouldn’t you rather it be to spend time with someone I love?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Everything,” she said, finishing her glass and pouring herself another. “I didn’t… Dada, I didn’t want to say this, but I was planning to leave before you and Papa were expecting. I stayed because I was worried about you and you couldn’t handle me leaving to make tea let alone leaving to be with Beelzebub. Then I couldn’t leave because Papa was so guilty and worried and upset about missing the birth. He needed me to comfort him and to help with Connie when you had your bad days.”

“I didn’t have that many,” Crowley said, squeezing his wineglass so tightly he was afraid it might burst. Shame was eating away at him as the meaning behind her words sank in. She’d been ready to run for years and made the arrangement with Beelzebub so she couldn’t talk herself into staying for either of her fathers’ benefit. 

“Dada, you did. But it’s okay! I _understand._ We let you down. It was my fault we weren’t home… I wanted to go out for lunch with Papa and Beelzebub. You had every right to be upset. I can’t even imagine how terrible that was for you. I couldn’t leave you after that… So when Beelzebub said after a decade you had to leave home—leave Papa and Connie and me… I couldn’t let you do that. I couldn’t. Not when I was the one who _wanted_ to go.”

“Didn’t… Didn’t mean to make you feel like it was your fault for what happened—”

“Dad, stop,” Annie said, sighing heavily. “It _was_ my fault. I was the one who wanted to go out. You were sick. Just please tell me you’re doing alright. Tell me things are better for you and Papa now—that it’s good I left instead of you.”

“We… We’re okay. Papa misses you a lot… Got our hands full with Connie.” He’d hoped seeing her would make him feel better.

He’d hoped seeing her would make her change her mind—that he’d find her miserable and he’d be able to convince her to go home. He hadn’t expected to find her dancing and drinking like she did above ground—living it up in Hell with her Prince of Hell husband. 

“Give him my love, okay? Tell him I miss him and can’t wait to see him,” Annie said, lounging back on the couch, drinking her wine. 

“Of course...” He felt as if his heart were breaking all over again to the beat of the song blaring outside the room.

( ) ( ) ( )

Connie was not like other children. Connie was the _leader_ of the other children. He was far more interested in people than either of his fathers and his sister had been, and insisted on going to the park every day at three o’clock to meet his friends. At first, it had driven Aziraphale nearly to tears to have his son so attached to these mortal, human children. He had the discussion many times, reminding him that they would grow old and leave him, and that he would be here—moving along through life—without them.

It did come as a concern to both him and Crowley when Constantine’s answer to this, at twenty-years-old, was “that’s fine. I don’t really like them anyway.”

“Then why do you insist on playing with them?” Crowley had asked.

“I don’t _play with them,_ Dad! They listen to me tell them what to do!” And by God, he was right. Aziraphale stopped reading his books (ugh on Crowley’s _tablet_ ) on the park bench while the little one’s played, and started paying attention.

The children would all be wandering restlessly back and forth when they arrived, and then Connie would climb onto the top of the slide, point and tell them all what to do. Ricky—you defend the castle! Abby—you survey the land! Korbin—you cross the ledge to the other kingdom! (That is to say, it was Ricky’s turn to climb on the wooden pirate ship, Abby’s turn to swing on the swings, and Korbin’s turn to play on the monkey bars.) 

“Your son, he’ll be a CEO someday, I’ll bet,” one of the mothers said to Aziraphale, giggling. He had no idea which child was hers, but it was one of the last pleasant encounters the angel and demon had had with the parents of his son’s…‘friends.’

What that mom hadn’t realized yet was that Connie’s friendship and leadership came with a price. An actual price of either money or toys or games. Connie began coming home with coins he didn’t have before, stolen credit cards and cellular phones, even a woman’s designer handbag once. He didn’t steal them, he always insisted, people _gave them_ to him. People _liked_ giving him things.

“There’s something…odd about this one, wouldn’t you say?” Aziraphale had asked Crowley as they returned the woman’s handbag with a heartfelt (and rejected) apology after Connie returned home from a VR Pod Birthday Party for a child called Han Xiao. 

“Eh—I don’t see anything wrong with it. He just has generous friends.”

“Generous friends?” Aziraphale asked, indignantly.

“Yeah. They like him so much, they want to give him gifts. He’s charming. Like me. What can I say? You’re welcome?” The demon smiled at him and Aziraphale wanted to smack him—playfully, of course. He wouldn’t ever really hurt him, no matter how much he might want to.

Crowley seemed to be coming more and more into himself with each passing year. As it turned out, going away for three months the second time (certainly not that traumatic first time Annie came home and Crowley couldn’t spend time with her) seemed to have been one of the best things to happen to him. When he came home, after he hugged and kissed Annie goodbye as Beelzebub collected her, all he could talk about were his travels—where he’d gone, what he’d seen, what he experienced, what he _did_ to people. 

“I invented a VR Dating Simulator! If only I’d made one before… Annie would’ve never had to leave home. It’ll cripple the Earth’s population! No one will need to meet anyone again!”

“Oh, Aziraphale, I tempted a man to give up the church to pursue his childhood dream of breeding black goats in Peru—or what used to be Peru. Shame about the Japanese taking over… The fusion cuisine was amazing. Wouldn’t travel well, though. Perhaps we can go on a night Connie has a sleepover.”

“I met this young man who was sleeping on a park bench and convinced him to quit his job and sleep forever. Weird kid. He said that’s what he’d been doing since twenty-one twelve. How could he be sleeping for most of fifty years?”

By the time Constantine was beginning to look like a teenager, the parents of the teenage boys he hung around were never pleased to see him coming.

_“Your_ son told _my Robert_ that if he didn’t give him his _collector’s edition_ Mormont Figure, he couldn’t play Eternity of War with the others anymore!”

And that was how things began…getting out of hand.

“Mother, father, I have an announcement!” Constantine had declared one morning, shaking his long blond curls out of his yellow eyes as he tossed back his shoulders ceremoniously. (Aziraphale had, one random snowy day, been deemed ‘mother’ no matter how many times Crowley reminded them both that he was the one who actually gave birth.)

“What is it?” Crowley asked, looking down into his cup of coffee and sulking. There was cream in it because Aziraphale hadn’t paid attention when making it and there wasn’t enough for a second cup. (Okay, he put the cream in on purpose. Crowley had been getting into all sorts of trouble around the cottage and Aziraphale had had quite enough of his books turning up places they didn’t belong. The angel found himself counting down the days until April when his husband would leave and his daughter would come home.)

“I have decided to enroll in a university!” He proclaimed, the same gusto he used when speaking to his following of friends.

“Well, it had better be one of those VR Campuses. I’m not transporting you to class every day,” Crowley said.

“No—No VR, father. I will be _going_ to campus!” He said in the same regal tone.

“And how are you getting the money together for that?” Crowley asked, taking a drink of the coffee and grimacing. 

“I don’t need money, father! I am going on _scholarship!_ I’ve come to tell you I was awarded a scholarship by the University of Olmetal in London.”

“What in Heaven’s name is that? Olmetal?” Aziraphale asked.

“A school of business! I have been awarded a scholarship—”

“How’d you manage that? You haven’t gone to school. You have no diploma. You have no birth certificate or license or legal papers to even cross city lines,” Crowley muttered.

“I have Ingrid’s school records falsified to my name, Patel doctored his birth certificate for me, and the Rami made me a license on his father’s machine and some registrations for Annie’s old monstrosity.” (Oh, how Crowley _shuddered_ to hear Annie’s Ferrari referred to as a monstrosity.) “It’s all taken care of. _I_ am a straight A student.”

“If you’d asked, I could’ve gotten that for you without the risk of legal repercussions,” Crowley said, almost glaring at his son. It seemed, when Connie wasn’t exactly devastated by Crowley’s absence three months out of the year, Crowley formed a strange detachment to the boy compared to the fondness he’d used to harbor. Aziraphale was still on the fence about whether or not that was such a good thing. “Why didn’t you ask?”

“You’d’ve said no.”

“I…I think it’s a marvelous idea. Constantine, off to school! Becoming a scholar! How wonderful,” Aziraphale said, smiling at Crowley whose coffee he was regretting messing with.

“Thank you, mother,” Connie said. “I knew you’d agree.”

“He also could have made these records for you without the risk of getting caught,” Crowley said, rather sternly.

“I wanted to do it on my own. I can’t rely on you for everything. You’re my father! My _mother!_ I must _honor_ you. Show that your efforts raising me were _worth it.”_

“Connie, we’re not your little disciples. Talk normal. Angel, fix my coffee,” Crowley said, sliding his cup toward Aziraphale who rolled his eyes, snapped his fingers, and whisked the cream away.

“Fine—Dad, Mom, I’m going and that’s final.”

“I said talk normal, not bark demands,” Crowley said.

He was, it seemed, just as off-put as Aziraphale at the thought of their son going away in the same way Annie had. Sure, Connie was off in London which wasn’t too far, but he was still gone and kept in touch about as well. 

So and so taught me to drive, text messages. So and so let me copy his homework last week and I passed with flying colors, text messages. 

He was gone two semesters, then came home during his third with a group of eight people for winter break.

“Hello, what’s this?” Crowley said as the individuals shuffled inside, taking off their coats and their shoes and then their socks before walking into the living room. “Who are these people? Who are you?”

“What’s—oh,” Aziraphale said, almost dropping his teacup. “I-I shall put on more water then. Not enough tea for all these…guests.”

“Father! Hello!” Constantine said, entering last and leaving on his coat and snowy boots as he hugged Crowley. “Mother! Mother, where are you hiding?” Still tracking snow, he walked through the living room and into the kitchen to embrace Aziraphale and kiss his cheek.

“Connie, who are all these people?”

“They are my friends! None of them had homes to return to for the holidays, so I brought them here. They are at your service, Mother. They will clean, organize, shovel snow—anything you like.”

“Connie, we don’t have room for them to stay here—they’re not…they’re not staying,” Aziraphale said, feeling a smidgen afraid of the anger that flashed through Connie’s yellow eyes.

They, like his father’s, had a tendency to glow when he was angry, though his pupils remained round instead of narrowing into slits. 

“But they have nowhere to go. The dorms are far too lonely a place to spend the holidays. Besides, Mother, they _love_ you. It’s an honor for them to come and meet you.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Aziraphale said, trying to ready enough similar-looking teacups to serve all eight of Connie’s visitors. “Take off your shoes.”

The visitors did not speak unless spoken to—did not eat unless the food was set into their hands by Constantine himself. When he handed them tea or water or snacks, they all said ‘thank you, our savior’ and Connie replied ‘my life to mine own.’

Constantine, as it turned out, had a way with words and a penchant for starting cults. There was just no other way to put it.

By the time he’d finished his four-year degree in business, he had started and lost five of them. Administration became aware of his antics and banned him from forming new clubs and from speaking at university events. When he couldn’t hunt for people to give him money or objects or attention at the university, he hunted on the streets. 

(He did, however, learn not to bring them home anymore as his demon father turned serpent and bit him for it the last time, giving him an awful bug that infected him with flu-like symptoms except they lasted close to two months. Demonic venom didn’t work too well in the body of a half-demon/half-angel. Aziraphale, to this day, wondered darkly if Crowley had been meaning to try to hurt him or if the venom came out on accident.)

The times he came home which overlapped with Annie’s visits left the cottage feeling like the home Aziraphale had been missing. The siblings teased each other—tormented each other—and swapped stories about the people they met and the things they could make them do.

He wished beyond belief that Crowley could come home and join them—share his stories too, show them both what a true demon, a true master of temptation, was able to accomplish. Why, Aziraphale was certain it would lead to hours long discussion and debates. He never thought in his wildest dreams that such wicked and wily temptations would intrigue him. 

Annie, he was happy to note, was no worse for wear being in Hell with Beelzebub and out tempting mortals on Earth. He’d had vaguely worried she might start resembling her hellish counterparts, rotting skin and hollow eyes, but she stayed as youthful and radiant as ever. In fact, Beelzebub seemed content to provide her with the very best dresses and outfits money could buy. His darling daughter wanted for nothing. She seemed happy—she seemed fulfilled. Though, with every visit, she repeatedly brought to light how she wished her Dada was home, how she would like to spend quality time with him someplace other than Beelzebub’s quarters of Hell.

“He truly hates it there, Papa. You can see it in his eyes. I thought he and Hastur were going to discorporate each other last time he was there… They really hate each other.”

“Well, they do have history… You don’t work under Hastur do you?” Aziraphale asked, meaning the exact opposite of the interpretation his daughter made of the question.

“Ew! No! Disgusting! Of all the demons, not him!—Never him! Beelzebub may give suggestions, but she respects it when I say no way!” 

That had been a detail about her love life with the prince of Hell Aziraphale never wanted to hear.

It was like that, comfortably, for many years. It was an easy routine to slip into. Connie off to school, Connie home for break, Annie home for the Spring and Crowley gone tempting. Connie leaving for school, Crowley coming home, Annie going off. 

Crowley’s week of mourning the absence of their children, then his months on end of clinging to Aziraphale and telling his tall tales. It was comfortable… It was nice.


	15. Chapter 15

Constantine was really enjoying America. He was completing the study abroad portion of his undergraduate business sciences degree and had come to the good old USA to intern with an investments firm in the City of Angels. He had picked it, for the most part, to honor his mother—finding out much too late that his mother had never actually been there. How could it possibly be called the City of Angels if the only Angel Ambassador on Earth had never been there?

He was disappointed, but undaunted. 

The work was quick and easy. He had a knack for business and an even better knack for getting people to do what he wanted. He went from running coffee and making copies on day one to joining in on board meetings by day three. The first Saturday he was in town, he was sipping cocktails at a hotel bar with one of the company’s directors and their foreign client from the UK who “appreciated” his “British Roots.” 

Connie did his best to remain humble, but climbing the ladder came so easily to him. He had enough hours in the day to complete any assignment given to him with exceptional quality—especially given the fact that he really didn’t need to eat or sleep to stay alive. It certainly gave him a leg up on the competition. 

When he wasn’t working or dining with directors, Constantine had settled into a familiar routine of scrounging the streets for scraps. His second week in LA, he found a lonely woman working the late shift at a diner. Her haggard face and disheveled clothes gave the impression that she seldom slept peacefully, but when she left after her shift she took a designer handbag with her.

Constantine befriended her, then met her cousin and sister, both immigrants from a war-torn country south of the border. They invited him over for dinner any night he desired and kept him fed and, soon enough, sheltered as he decided the university-provided housing was of no interest to him. It was much too small and the communal bathrooms stank. He liked Consuela’s house and made it into his own. 

Along with Consuela and her family, Connie had befriended a young man named Harper who played guitar in the subway station for spare change. He gave Harper a photograph of his angel mother, Aziraphale, and tasked him with writing a song in his honor. When the song was completed and perfected to Connie’s satisfaction (roughly three weeks into Constantine’s internship) he brought Harper in off the streets to live with Consuela, her sister, and her cousin. They hugged him, welcomed him, and fed him as if he were Constantine. 

Slowly, the number of occupants in the house increased as did the numbers of photographs and drawings of Aziraphale—the Angel Mother. 

Crucifixes and holy candles were pushed out in favor of symbols Constantine had designed that were all meant to represent the Angel Mother. Constantine filled their heads with his mother’s grace, his love, his devotion—stories of how he’d turned a demon from hating and evil to a life of fatherhood and good deeds. (Okay, so he made that part up, but what religion was without some stretching of the truth?)

Two months into his internship and Constantine was holding service in the basement of an old church. He charmed the pastor and made a show of attending the man’s boring services on Sunday mornings, then hosted “Bible Study” twice a week. It wasn’t too long before Constantine was leading Sunday Worship and hosting Bible Study three times a week. (Saturdays were reserved for charity work. Everyone in the congregation was expected to volunteer in honor of the Angel Mother.)

By day, Constantine was a promising intern on the fast track to being hired full-time, and by night he was the savior of forsaken souls. 

“God may have forsaken you, my friends, but the Angel Mother has not!” And in came the money, the food, the gifts, and the love. Consuela’s house became home base for their meetings, packed wall-to-wall with people sleeping on quilts and mats. The landlord protested at first, but before long even she was a member of the Church of Mother Angel.

Constantine had taken over the master bedroom, leaving Consuela to be with the rest of his flock downstairs.

By the time summer had neared its end, however, his flock was becoming restless. The word of the Angel Mother wasn’t enough, nor were the stories or the promises of healing and unconditional love. The flock wanted more—they always wanted more, the greedy things. More of Constantine, of his time and affection and attention and his stories. It had been that way ever since he was a little boy, home with his father. 

Oh, Hell, how his Dear Dad wanted _all_ of his attention for himself. Poor Angel Mother hardly got a minute in edgewise. 

But not now though. Now, Aziraphale would have all the love he could ever ask for or need.

And, after three well-timed and acted phone calls, Angel Mother would be coming to visit—with Annie, too! Oh, how excited Connie was to see his big sister. It had been so regrettable that he had to intern the three months Antigone was home, but now it was all past them! She would come visit and bring her stories about great misdeeds and her travels, and all her sinful transgressions Below. It was like the stories his father had raised him on, only twice as juicy. 

“Remember, offer him tea—tea only! He likes the lavender earl gray and rosehip with chamomile. Ask him which he wants. Don’t offer food until he tells you he’s feeling hungry. This is the way to please our Angel Mother,” Constantine said to his flock, standing on the staircase and speaking down to them with his shoulders rolled back. “Do not bow or make grandiose gestures. He is a humble angel—a being of love and equality. He serves only that Lord God which has abandoned you, but it is he who can bless and heal you—in this your hour of great need.” And so on and so forth.

About an hour later, there was a knock at the door and Constantine made a point to open it himself, smiling as his eyes landed upon his nervous Angel Mother and Annie behind him.

“Constantine! How are you, my dear boy?” Aziraphale asked, leaning in for a hug which Constantine happily accepted. Waves of warmth and love coursed through him from the angel’s body and he let out a happy sigh as they pulled apart. Annie then embraced him, her grasp much more forceful and needy as she kissed both of his cheeks and patted the top of his head as if he were still a little boy.

“Baby brother, you’ve got so big!”

“Yes! Bigger than Jesus!” He said, without shame, until his Angel Mother gasped. “Sorry, mother. It’s…a thing they say here. Bit of blasphemous slang. You know how it is these days. Come inside, mother! I have so many people so very excited to meet you!”

Connie opened the door to show his mother and sister the expectant and needy faces of his flock. A few of them went to bow down, but quickly caught themselves and remained upright. 

“Oh… Oh, good heavens. Connie…”

“Wow, Constantine—this is weird even for you,” Annie said, her voice a soft whisper.

“Nonsense! Mother, these are my friends. They’ve been waiting so long to meet you!”

“Is that my photograph? On the wall over there?—And that drawing… Oh, dear. Oh—Oh, dear,” his mother said, wringing his hands nervously. 

“Welcome, Angel Mother,” said Consuela, stepping forward from the crowd to shake Aziraphale’s hand. “We have lavender earl gray and rosehip chamomile for you. What tea would you like?” Expertly spoken, only the faintest tremble of admiration in her voice. Constantine was proud.

“Erm… Ah—yes. Tea, excellent! Is that my photograph, too?”

“Mother, lavender earl gray or chamomile?” Constantine asked.

“Oh… Ah… Either.”

“Earl gray for me,” Annie said, looking around the room—eyes settling on Harper and immediately beginning to glisten. “Play the guitar, do you, love?”

“Yes, sister! I-I have written a song for—” Harper stopped in his tracks when Constantine sent him a sharp glance. They had talked about this. No songs would be sung until _after_ tea. “—for later.”

“Oh, I do love to hear a good song. Don’t you, Papa?” Annie asked, rubbing their father on the shoulder. 

“Er… Yes. Is that my picture? Connie? Why is my photograph everywhere?”

“Well, I missed you, mother!” Constantine said, seeing to it that Consuela went to make the earl gray. 

“What about your father? You’ve no photos of him anywhere. He’d be… He would be disappointed.”

“Last time I handed out his picture on leaflets, he lost his mind.”

“Well, you did let someone summon him. He was not happy about that… Oh, Connie, tell me this isn’t what I think it is,” Aziraphale said as his eyes fell on the banner over the bricked-up fireplace. “Church of the Angel Mother? Please tell me that’s an American expression for Mary?”

“It’s an American expression for _you,_ mother. These people, they are your disciples. They love you!”

“You’ve got quite the fan base, Papa,” Annie chimed in. “I need to learn how you do it. The demons in Hell really like my company, but even they don’t hang my picture up. At least not anywhere public.” She giggled at her own joke and the angel let out an almost pained moan.

“Oh—Oh, God in Heaven! Please, please forgive me! Please forgive my son—these _people!_ They know not what they’ve done. Oh, please, please forgive them,” the Angel Mother said, falling to his knees and glowing—really glowing—as he spoke to God. 

Everyone in the room gasped and aww’d. It was true! All true! All of Constantine’s teachings had just now been proven true!

“Oh, Connie—Connie, no! How could you? How could you, Connie?” And variations thereof were all his mother said to him during the visit, even after his song had been played. “How could you use me to damn all these people?” He asked as he stepped out the door to leave and go back to his and Annie’s hotel. (Annie had already told him she’d be sneaking back over to visit Harper later.) 

“I haven’t damned them! I just made some new friends. Honestly, mother. I don’t see why you’re upset. I did this for you! I did this so they’d love you—like I do. Like Annie does! Like father does!”

“Your father would never form a cult to worship me! Worshiping false idols is a one way ticket to Hell, Constantine! If you want to do right by me, teach these people in the name of the Lord and Jesus Christ. Can you do that for me? Please?” The angel said, weeping.

“I’ve tried that. There’s no money or success to be had in it unless you do it all improper. Then you get upset because I stretched the Word! Come now, mother. Look how much they love you!”

“Disband them at once or I shall tell your father—again!”

Constantine groaned and stomped his foot like a child of ten as opposed to an adult of thirty-five.

“Mom,” he whined.

“Do it at once! And then…meet me for lunch tomorrow. You have our address,” the angel said, stepping down from Consuela’s porch and wandering away, leaving Constantine to his flock who had been watching the spectacle with their hands over their mouths.

“Disband? But where are we to go?” They cried.

“Put your faith in the Lord; our Mother Angel has spoken,” Constantine said with a heavy sigh. It was going to take a lot of work to remove all the photographs and find a new place to live.

( ) ( ) ( )

Aziraphale was still unabashedly crying into his knees, wrapped up on the hotel bed with his wings out—feathers ripped to pieces and scattered around him. Never in his entire existence had he felt so defiled, so unholy and condemned. To think his own offspring, his own son, would so willingly use his likeness to lead however many people into damnation and he hadn’t even been aware.

He was so disappointed, convinced he had failed as a father—convinced even more that he had undoubtedly failed as an angel. He raised his child in love and support, and that child ran off to create cult after cult after cult. Where had he gone wrong?

Aziraphale had his head in his hands when he heard the hotel room door open and close. Annie, he assumed, coming back after her adventures in tempting the dispersed members of her younger brother’s Church of the Mother Angel.

“Well, that’s hardly the warm welcome I was counting on,” came Crowley’s voice from across the room. Aziraphale’s head shot up in an instant, his wings trembling and disappearing out of sight. “What’s the matter, Angel? Did you leave your book on the airplane?—Oh, no, here it is. Dickens? Still? You were reading this when I left.”

“What are you doing here?” Aziraphale asked, the words coming out forced. He felt it must’ve been the wrong thing to say to his husband as the demon’s lips curled downward in a pained frown a moment before being quickly disguised by indifference.

“I was slithering around down below and heard from this girl called Delilah who heard from the Beetle who heard from Dagon who heard from our son-in-law who heard from Satan himself that our son had recently damned forty souls through a cult called the Church of the Mother Angel. I went to go talk to Connie about this and he told me I should come check on you. I think he’s still mad about the whole venom incident.”

“You did bite him rather hard,” Aziraphale said, wiping his face.

“Annie was there too, at the house. Saw a bit more of her than I wanted to. You know, those people have been sleeping in camping bags—little, insulated sleepy…camping bags, for outside—on the floor. All side by side and whatnot. No concerns for privacy, obviously. And Constantine acted like he didn’t see what she was doing—”

“I don’t want to hear about it,” Aziraphale interjected. Not sure if he was more revolted by the idea of the sleeping arrangement, his daughter engaging in perverse actions with the misguided congregation, or the fact that she did so with her father and brother in the room. Hell really had done a number on her!

“What’s with all the feathers?” Crowley asked instead, picking up one of the long primaries that lay on the bed. “Angel, we’ve talked about this,” he said. 

“I know,” Aziraphale said, ducking his head again. He’d been plucking out his feathers for decades, thinning his wings until they were patchy messes like a neglected pet bird. It was a wretched habit but…he just couldn’t stop.

“I’m sorry, Angel. I talked to him. I told him why you were upset—how you were upset. To use your grace as a foundation for a cult when you’ve worked so hard to keep from Falling… Ugh. The boy just doesn’t understand. He’ll never understand us. He’s more devil than angel. I’m sorry about that.”

“I just don’t understand where we went wrong with him,” Aziraphale whined, knowing Crowley couldn’t possibly offer any solutions.

“Must be… Must be his sin. Like Annie’s is lust. She doesn’t mean any harm through what she does, she just…does it. Maybe Constantine is the same. He doesn’t seem like he hates the people he collects.”

“He told us when he was a little boy that he didn’t like them.”

“Annie doesn’t like most of her lovers either. Except Beelzebub and apparently Dagon.” Crowley’s entire body shuddered at the thought. 

“There’s no Mortal Sin called ‘Formation of Cults,’” Aziraphale said, absently running his fingers through the feathers he’d scattered on the blankets. 

“Greed,” Crowley said. “It’s greed. He makes everyone around him brainless with it. Do you remember when I was carrying him?”

“How on Earth could I ever forget? It was horrible… Worst thing I ever did to you.”

“Did it to myself, really. Tempting an angel and what have you… Anyway, the thing is, all I could think about was you. I needed you. Every minute, every second, every single instant—”

“And I should have been there,” Aziraphale said, shaking his head in hopes of dispelling the awful images plaguing his brain of that awful nest of feathers and blood and tears.

“I don’t think it would’ve changed anything. I could have been a serpent around your neck and still wouldn’t have felt whole. Then, when Constantine came, if I was holding him, I felt complete again. Nothing bad existed because if I held him, I had him. I had his attention, his time, his love. I didn’t need anything else. I had all the love I wanted right there. _But,_ put him down, and I’m back to square one. And back then…” Crowley let out a deep breath and turned his gaze to the wall. “Back then I was still convinced you didn’t really want me around. I don’t know why it happened. I don’t know if it’s because I’m a demon, like Beelzebub said—that making new life when you’re meant to be destroying it wrecks our souls. I don’t know why, but I loved you and I was certain you disliked me after how far I’d fallen.”

“I should have done more to show you how much I did love you—how much I _do!”_ Aziraphale tacked on, in fear of sending the wrong message. “I… I was prepared for morning sickness and mood swings, not what happened to you. I didn’t know how to cope and sometimes I just wanted to be on my own so I wouldn’t lash out at you in my…my confusion and—”

“If those people out there, the one’s Connie finds, feel even half as bad as I did, they can’t help themselves but to follow him,” Crowley said, cutting Aziraphale short. “If he invokes that feeling in them, there’s nothing you or I can to do stop it or change him. He’s just another part of Her…ineffable plan. Another cog in the machine.”

“I do wish I could know what this is heading toward,” Aziraphale said, watching sheepishly as Crowley began collecting his feathers up from the mattress.

“Angel?” Crowley said, once all the feathers were gathered in a pile in his arms, looking oddly like he was cradling a baby.

“Yes?” He asked, noting the suspicious way the demon was looking at him, nervously and a tad bit _shy._

“Don’t suppose you could…make a pillow out of this, do you? Feathers are probably all too big…”

“Ah, yes. I’m afraid so.”

Crowley looked down at the bundle of feathers and then allowed them to fall from his arms to the floor. 

“Angel?” He asked again, his tone sounding exactly the same. “Do you want more?”

“More feathers?” Aziraphale asked, wondering a moment if Crowley was going to try to get back at him for pulling his feathers out from stress by ripping out handfuls of his own to add to the pile.

“No! More… More hatchlings. More children. I think…I wouldn’t mind another baby. If…If you could carry it.” 

For a moment, Aziraphale felt as if time had stopped. Crowley was looking at the scattered feathers on the ground, not at him. 

“Maybe if you carried it, my dark nature wouldn’t contaminate—”

“You didn’t carry Annie,” Aziraphale said, then, realizing his tone, shook his head and tried again. “You’re not the reason Constantine and Annie are what they are.”

“You don’t want more,” Crowley said, taking Aziraphale’s lack of an answer for a definitive no.

“Now is hardly the time to be asking, don’t you think? You’re supposed to be off tempting.”

“I am tempting! This is my greatest conquest—a work in progress,” Crowley said, trying to mask his pain with a very shaky, mournful humor. “I thought a good romp might cheer you up is all. And if we have a child, maybe they won’t make me leave again for a time.”

Aziraphale stared at him, taking in how sad he looked—how drained he looked. He imagined he must also be looking as bad after what had just transpired at the “Church.”

“Well, you could’ve at least brought some wine,” Aziraphale ended up saying, shuffling around on the bed a bit.

“Hotel bar? Or I know an ice cream shop that’s open until after midnight. My treat,” Crowley said, lowering his sunglasses and surveying Aziraphale as if to make sure this wasn’t a trick of some sort.

“Dinner first, then ice cream—then perhaps we’ll order room service. Where are you taking me to eat?”

Crowley stared at him, anxiously, then started nodding and snapped his fingers. Miraculously, they were there—walking with a hostess dressed in the highest of fashion, being led to a set table for two by a window looking down at the Los Angeles skyline from eighty stories up.

“Oh! Oh, this does seem wonderful! Have you dined here before?” Aziraphale asked.

“Nah—read about it. They served the Pope here last week.”

Aziraphale gaped at him.

“The Pope should not be eating here!”

“Oh, I know,” Crowley said, smiling and tipping his glasses to show his eyes. “I have been told I’m rather good at tempting the mighty with food.”

Aziraphale let the temptation of the Pope slide for now, fixing Crowley only with a stern glare as he fussed in his seat while hoping it was all a ruse. If it was good enough to tempt the Pope for real, however, Aziraphale knew he was really in for a treat.

( ) ( ) ( )

Crowley lay atop his angel, breathing slowing down, heart rate racing even still. Every now and then he’d shiver, aftershocks of pleasure coursing through him—his wings flexing of their own accord as Aziraphale slowly smoothed his palms up and down Crowley’s sides. 

“Well… That was delightful,” the angel said, almost making Crowley laugh.

He managed to hold it back by burying his face into Aziraphale’s neck, kissing it and nibbling the skin a little just to feel the angel squirm.

“Vicious thing,” Aziraphale mumbled, hugging him by the waist and kissing his ear. 

Crowley fluttered his wings a few times, then tucked them carefully away so he could shuffle beneath the covers Aziraphale had quickly miracled clean as soon as he had finished. Other than to cover himself, Crowley did not want to move. 

He would honestly be happy to spend the rest of eternity right where he was—wrapped in Aziraphale’s arms, thinking only of him, feeling the angelic grace all around him. Aziraphale was happy. Crowley could feel how happy he’d made him. 

They’d had their perfect night—dinner most men couldn’t afford, drinks and room service. A bath together in the hotel’s luxurious bathtub (discreetly miracled to fit two bodies and their respective wings). 

It felt like they were the only two beings in the entire universe—exploring each other’s bodies as if they were unfamiliar terrain. And Crowley guessed they were. They’d only done this one before—only the roles had been reversed and it happened in the tub where Crowley cracked his head on the faucet like a moron halfway through.

There was more kissing this time, which Crowley was happy with. More nuzzling each other and holding each other and loving each other—cherishing each other, that was what it had been. This time they cherished the moment.

“Mm—your back is scaling up,” Aziraphale said, gently scraping his nails over the glossy scales Crowley hadn’t felt taking over. He focus and pushed the scales away, returning his skin to its unblemished state. He guessed he was getting too lost in the moment and started pulling himself back out of the pool of his thoughts. “You in there, my love?”

“Ngk,” Crowley said, his face still buried in the angel’s neck. His mind was still dizzy with pleasure and he felt like talking would break the spell. 

Aziraphale’s hands went back to stroking his sides all the way down to his hips and back up. 

“Falling asleep, are you?”

“Why’re y’so chatty?” Crowley asked, whining as Aziraphale rolled them onto their sides. “Jussst enjoy the moment.”

“Ah. Of course, my love,” Aziraphale said, hugging him close and resting his chin on the top of Crowley’s head.

Crowley was just about to fall asleep when the hotel room door opened and Annie stumbled in, cackling—drunk—and dropping her shoes loudly on the floor.

Aziraphale shot up quickly, snapping his fingers and dressing himself in pajamas while leaving Crowley to fend for himself. Crowley, exhausted and not in the mood, covered his head with the pillow. 

“Ooh—Papa, you _dirty thing!”_ Annie cackled, falling over without closing the hotel room door.

“Annie, good heavens, child!” Aziraphale said, sounding adorably flustered to Crowley who snapped his fingers to close the door. “Crowley! Get dressed!” He whispered harshly.

“’Sss the point? She already knowsss,” he hissed softly. “Let me sssleep.”

“We can’t all three share a bed, Crowley. Get up.”

“No. She’sss out of luck.” He wasn’t giving up his spot for her after where she’d been and what she’d been doing. No. She didn’t deserve it. She didn’t get to sneak off and sleep with boys and then come back and steal his bed from him.

“I’m not here to sleep, Papa! I just wanted my—” She paused to laugh hysterically. “—other purse! The one Bzz-Bzz got me! She’s taking me out.”

“Out? At this hour?” Aziraphale asked, getting out of the bed which caused Crowley to let out an unflattering whine. 

“Shhh! Aw, Dada is so upset! Go back to bed! Shhh. It’s like I’m not here—I’m not here!” Annie said, tripping over something and laughing harder at herself as she fumbled around to find her bag. “Here it is!”

“Annie you’re in no condition to be going anywhere with anyone! Let me get you some water, dear.”

“No—No, no! Bzz-Bzz is in the hallway. She’s waiting!” Annie laughed hysterically. “Sorry to interrupt—you filthy animals. Ha!” 

“My darling, please reconsider!” 

Crowley listened from beneath the pillow as Aziraphale followed her out into the hallway, heard him talking to none other than the buzzing Prince Beelzebuzz, then heard the door open and close.

“That girl! She has no shame! To—To lay with one of those strange followers of Constantine and then immediately go out with her wife. Shameless!”

“Yesss, yess. Come back to bed,” Crowley hissed softly, keeping his head covered with the pillow but lifting up his arm expectantly—waiting a ridiculously long amount of time before Aziraphale laid down beside him again. 

“You should put on your clothes.”

“Why? ‘Ssss round two off the table?” 

“Oh! Oh… I hadn’t thought… Y-You can’t be serious? Oh, Crowley, you can’t even keep your eyes open.”

“Don’t need ‘em open. Ssssecondsss?”

Aziraphale let out a huff and snapped his fingers. 

Crowley’s lips curled into a devilish smile—the fabric that had been blocking his skin from the angel’s gone in an instant. 

Hatchlings, he thought.

_Pleasure._

Aziraphale.

Twins.


	16. Chapter 16

Coming home to Hell after three month’s spent with her heavenly father and, occasionally, Constantine was always difficult. She was happy to see Beelzebub, but certainly didn’t miss the cramped hallways and reeking filth that was Below. She would come in and immediately be swarmed, like some sort of celebrity, demons clutching at her and yanking on her while she tried to smile a “wicked” smile and force through them to get to Beelz’s quarters. There was always that _one_ who became a little insistent that she give them special attention—thinking they could demand access to her because she was a “slave” to Beelzebub and Hell. They had no idea that by “Slave,” Satan and Beelzebub meant _Wife._

Today, it was the only surviving Fallen archangel—Gabriel. They had tried to assign him a new name based on his new form, a crocodile with a vicious grin, but all they could come up with was “Crawly” and that had apparently been taken already. 

“Well, well, well. Look who decided to crawl back home,” Gabriel said, his fingers, like claws, wrapped around her arm and digging in.

“I don’t _crawl,_ I sashay,” Antigone stated, twisting her hips in order put motion into the fabric of her long skirt. 

“Tell me, Annie, aren’t you _bored_ with his arrangement yet? We could offer you so much more if you were traded _him_ places,” Gabriel said, glancing up at the ceiling, meaning her father. It was no secret that the two of them still had a bone to pick with each other. 

“I would _rather,”_ she said, yanking her arm free—much to the chagrin of her sleeve which tore from the press of Gabriel’s claws, “stay Below with my wife. Thank you.”

She began walking away again, a little faster, clutching her suitcase tightly in her left hand while her right forearm slowly leaked blood from the slice of Gabriel’s talons. 

“Oh, but just think—you could see her whenever you’d like. And you could see that pathetic excuse for an angel as often as you’d like. The only one who couldn’t is that useless excuse for a demon you call your, what was it? Oh, _dada._ Tell me, Annie, are you still a twelve-year-old girl?”

“Tell me, Gabriel, what happened to your wings in the Fall?” Annie asked, knowing she was playing with fire and not caring. She wouldn’t let him get the best of her, and she wouldn’t let him get by unscathed after insulting both of her fathers. 

Behind her, she heard the monster give a loud roar, the vicious memory of his fall from grace sending the ex-archangel into a fury. It happened before she was born, but the echoes of the archangels’ plight continued on in Hell—being told and retold quiet often, as stories of pain and suffering were a particular favorite amongst the demons.

When the angels who tortured her father Fell, they suffered injuries ten times worse than what they’d enacted on her demon father. Uriel, who had once severed her serpent father’s tail, lost all four of her limbs and grew mangled , skeletal hands and feet like a birds’. Michael’s skin was torn to ribbons, sliced in the same way his father’s had been from her holy whips. Gabriel’s wings were ripped to pieces and torn from him in the Fall, leaving gaping wounds in his back that still festered and leaked blood into his tattered rags of a suit. 

Antigone had but a few seconds to begin running before she felt the weight of Gabriel’s crocodile form crash into her back, knocking her to the ground as the monster’s teeth smashed into her shoulder. She need only let out a scream—a loud one, at least, so it could be heard echoing through the corridors—and Beelzebub would come.

And Beelzebub did.

Antigone was shaken back and forth several times, the skin of her shoulder ripping beneath Gabriel’s puncturing bite. Then the next thing she knew, the crocodile had been wrenched off of her and was pinned to the floor by a monster six times its size. 

Beelzebub’s true form. 

It was a stretch to even try saying she found the massive insect cute. The fly had a mixture of scales and hair, humanoid legs and arms stained an inky black with red-colored veins visible through the sickeningly transparent flesh. The wings on its back were made of a swarm of maggots and flies, buzzing and writhing consistently to form the distinct shape—though Annie wasn’t certain if they were functional wings or not. The eyes were made of a thousand human eyes—some blinded, some bloody, some perfectly clear and observant, always watching. All of them were now fixated on Gabriel who was shrinking back, cowering in fear in his human form while Beelzebub’s giant maw extended like a beak and opened to reveal a hideous buzz saw of teeth. 

“I’m so sorry! Please, forgive me! Prince Beelzebub, I-I implore you! Please!” Gabriel’s pleading and stammering were cut off with a loud scream of agony—the Lord of the Flies sinking her teeth into the demon and showing no mercy.

“Lady Agony? Are you alright? Come now. Come along!” 

All of a sudden, Annie was being pulled onto her feet by Dagon who took her suitcase from her and kept a protective arm around her as they made their way to Beelzebub’s quarters—Gabriel’s screams keeping them company the whole way.

“I can’t believe he’d pull a stunt like that! Stupid demon! Prince Beelzebub will lose his mind to see what’s happened to you!” Dagon gently ran her hand along the gashes in Annie’s shoulder, sending a shockwave of pain through her—though Annie was pleased with herself that she did not cry. Being in Hell had truly elevated her pain tolerance. Though nearly losing her arm was pushing it. “I’d heal you, but that’s Prince Beelzebub’s role. I can’t overstep… He’ll want to see.”

“Then she needs to hurry up,” Annie hissed, holding the skirt of her dress to the wound in hopes of slowing the bleeding. She wouldn’t die—in fact, she was fairly certain she couldn’t, considering Wrath was still prowling around Hell no worse for wear. Beelzebub insisted he’d become full demon, but nothing about his demeanor or appearance had changed to suggest that was true. Annie wasn’t about to go dousing him with Holy Water to determine if it were legitimate or not though.

“Beelzebub will be here soon. I promise. Just hold on a little longer, alright?” Dagon said, running a hand up and down Annie’s back in an attempt to be soothing. All it really did was make her skin prickle from how cold the demon’s hands were. It felt like cubes of ice, even through her shirt.

Annie continued to apply pressure to the puncture marks in her shoulder, staring off at a corner of the room while trying to focus on anything other than the pulsations of pain shooting down her arm and shoulder blade. 

It felt like hours—and perhaps it had been—before Beelzebub burst into the room. She was half monster and half her typical form, that is to say her skin was blackened, she had two extra arms, and her wings of flies and maggots were still showing as she shoved Dagon violently aside to assess Annie’s shoulder and arm.

“What did that idiot do to you?” She growled, pulling away Annie’s hand and moving the fabric of her skirt that she’d wound around the injury to soak up the blood. “Thizzzz izzz unazzeptable! Worthlezzzz demon! Worthlezzzz zzcum of the earth!” Beelzebub ran her hand over the wound, assessing it, pressing on it until it wept more blood, and then healing it. “I’ll have hizzzz head! I’ll have it! Dagon! Bring him before the Dark Counzzzil! He should be where I left him.”

Annie sighed in relief as her arm stopped hurting and smiled as Beelzebub took the care to fix the damage that had been done to her dress as well, even cleaning away the blood.

“Are you alright? Did he hurt you anywhere elzzze?” Beelzebub was looking at Antigone everywhere except in the eye, turning her head by her chin to examine her throat and her collar bones, pushing aside her dress to check her for other marks or bruises. 

“He did thizzz to your arm!?” She asked, holding up Antigone’s wrist forcefully. She didn’t mean to cause any pain, but Annie couldn’t suppress her wince.

“Yes. But it’s not so bad,” she said as Beelzebub healed her and fixed the dress. “Is he still in once piece?”

“He won’t be for long. I have planzzzz for him. Touching _my_ property, in _my_ domain. He’zzz lucky he zztill hazz armzz.”

The next thing Annie knew, she had all four arms wrapped around her and the demon prince was squeezing her tighter than her serpent father ever had. 

“Aw, you do love me,” Annie said, hugging back in spite of the low, buzzing grumble Beelzebub let out. She hated sappy words of affection, but was tolerating them now because Annie had been hurt. Antigone would take what she could get.

“He’zzz got zzome nerve touching you like that,” Beelzebub grumbled, pulling away and patting Annie on the shoulder with two of her four hands. “I don’t care if Crowley izzz your father and they have a rivalry. He can take out hizzz frustrationz on the zerpent.” 

“How long do you think you’ll be with Dark Council?” Annie asked, watching as Beelzebub shook her arms until the skin turned a greyish tan again and she was back down to two instead of four.

“I’m not zure. Dependzzz on how long he zzztayz consciouzzz.” She smiled then, a genuinely happy smile because torturing other demons was one of her greatest pleasures, and stroked Annie’s cheek. “You get unpacked and have zzome wine. I left a prezzent for you in our room.”

Her wings were still buzzing with flies as she left their quarters to report to the Dark Council.

The present, it turned out, was a special chalice that looked very similar to the one Beelzebub was possessive over, a new bottle of wine, a designer handbag that probably cost as much as a house in the modern climate, and lingerie. That was a typical present from the prince, especially upon her return from above. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t seen each other very recently (they probably saw each other at least every other week, even when she was visiting her angel father), but the welcome home party was always passionate as if they’d been apart for decades.

Annie was well on her way to getting drunk, lounging on the bed in the lingerie, examining the handbag, when Beelzebub finally returned—no extra arms or wings this time. 

“How did everything go? Alright?” Annie asked as Beelzebub passed her and opened a door to their master bathroom. Literally just a bath that took up the entire room. Beelzebub only ever used it when she was stressed or angry, and given the fact that the demon didn’t look at or acknowledge her as she entered made Annie suspicious it was the latter.

“Fine,” Beelzebub said, leaving the door open as she disappeared into the suddenly candle-lit room. 

Annie slowly got up from the bed, carrying her chalice of wine with her, and peered in the doorway. Beelzebub was oddly messing with the second faucet, not the one Annie used when readying the bath, and was buzzing to herself as she did. She had, at some point, vanished her clothes and was left in one of Annie’s red dress slips. That was also unusual. 

“Do you want me to join you?” Annie asked, licking her lips to clear it of wine.

It surprised her a little when the demon prince turned to her with an almost gleeful smile.

“I don’t think you’ll want to. _I’m_ taking a blood bath.” And indeed she was. The faucet began pouring thick, purple blood that was steaming and choked the air with a putrid smell. 

“Well, please do wash it off before you come to bed,” Annie told her, taking another sip of wine. “Do you want something to drink while you soak? Something besides the blood?”

“I will be horribly content with zzome wine,” Beelzebub answered. “From my cup,” she tacked on. 

Annie winked at her and said “of course” before fetching the chalice and pouring some of her gifted bottle of wine into it. By the time she had returned, Beelzebub was happily stewing in the red muck and accepted the cup greedily.

“How did things go at the meeting?” Annie asked.

“Oh, wretched! Absolutely horribly, wretched!” She cackled and sank a little deeper into the blood. “That worthlezzz worm will never even look at you again. I zzzzlit him from groin to gullet. Gutzzzz everywhere! I made him eat hizzz own handzz. It was dizzzgustingly wicked. The Counzzzzil laughed and laughed!” She splashed her free hand down in the blood like a mirthful child and sipped her wine. “I bet ZZZZatan will give me another commemoration!” Again she splashed and Annie smiled down at her over the rim of her cup. It was so rare to see Beelzebub beside herself with joy and it warmed her.

“You certainly deserve one for all the hard work you do. Would you like left alone to your bath?” She asked. 

“Yezzz. I’ll be out later. Help yourzzzelf to more wine. I have another bottle in the cabinet.”

Antigone leaned down over the tub in order to steal a kiss, careful to keep her hair from falling into the pool of blood. After that, she left Beelzebub to it, leaving the door open a crack in case the prince called to her for something. She did open the second bottle of wine and pour a new cup for herself while she waited. 

In the other room, she could still hear Beelzebub buzzing to herself—occasionally splashing around in her bath. Never mind the fact that her bath water was blood. Never mind the fact that her joyful buzzing was the result of torture and the spilling of entrails… Those things aside, it was actually quite lovely—rather cute. But to Beelzebub, Annie would say it was most vile, deplorable, and outright dastardly. 

It was, for the most part, a joyful homecoming.

( ) ( ) ( )

Crowley hadn’t arrived by the time Annie had left, and that fact alone left Aziraphale rattled to his core. He tried to be rational, to tell himself that Crowley had just gotten caught up by a difficult temptation, but Crowley had never missed his chance to say goodbye to Annie. He typically showed up early in the morning and spent the day with her. To have Annie gone a full twenty-four hours without sight of Crowley felt like a year. 

It felt like an eternity and Aziraphale’s mind kept flashing back to the decade Crowley had been kept prisoner. He was terrified it had happened again, that someone else—some other angel—had him and was cutting the wings off his back. 

Aziraphale sat on their couch, wringing his hands and staring at the dark fireplace. His mind kept flickering back to Crowley as he had been when he’d crashed into the shop—all blood and tears and shattered wings. He couldn’t go through that again. He couldn’t see Crowley so helpless and broken all over again. 

He couldn’t...go through this alone. 

Aziraphale took his wings out and immediately reached for the soft layer of down just behind his shoulder. He ripped the feathers out quickly, tearing three or four small feathers out at a time. He moved down the bow of his wing—as far as he could reach—and then moved on to the patchy bits of longer feathers he had left. He tore them out as well until, at long last, he was left with only the smallest of feathers and unreachable patches of down on his left wing. 

Crowley would be so repulsed to see it...

Just as the first tear slid down his cheek, the front door clicked open and Aziraphale leapt onto his feet. 

“Angel?” Crowley’s voice sounded so meek as he pushed open the door and came into the dark cottage.

“What’s happened?” Aziraphale asked, hurrying to him after taking a moment to tuck away his wings. “Where have you been?” He asked, taking in Crowley’s form—expecting broken wings or tears of blood. There were none. 

Thank Heaven there were none. 

“I… I wanted to get you a present. I couldn’t decide… Probably spent longer than I should have. Is Annie already…?”

“Yes. She left last night,” Aziraphale said, still expecting Crowley to say something terrible. Inside, he could feel himself trembling though he wasn’t sure it made it to the surface. 

“Oh, no… I’m—I’m sorry, Angel. I was still trying to pick something out for you… I just couldn’t make up my mind. Wanted to...make sure it was something you’d like. Didn’t want to upset you or drive you away.”

“Drive me away?” Aziraphale asked, his mind grinding to a halt. Where was this coming from? The last they’d seen of each other had been at the hotel. They’d held each other, Crowley’s head tucked under Aziraphale’s chin, their bodies pressed as close as possible until Beelzebub came to return Annie and demanded Crowley get back to work. Why would he think, after a moment so intimate, that Aziraphale would be driven away by a bad gift?

Why did he think he needed to bring Aziraphale an offering at all?

“I thought...after what happened,” Crowley started, his gaze falling to the floor—eyes hidden by his sunglasses. He had his hands behind his back, hiding whatever gift he’d brought from view. 

“After what happened? My darling, whatever are you talking about?” Aziraphale asked, allowing himself to finally let out a sigh of relief. Crowley was fine. He was having one of his off days again, but was otherwise no worse for wear. 

“Tempted… Tempted you,” Crowley muttered, his eyebrows quirking as he grimaced briefly, clearly trying to hide the gesture. 

“Tempted me? My darling, we _are_ married in the eyes of God. Our union is blessed by Her. There’s no _tempting._ What are you on about?” Aziraphale snapped his fingers to turn on the overhead light. Crowley glanced up briefly, exposing his face which was no worse for wear—no bruises or injuries from fights he’d had in Hell. Yes, Aziraphale was certain now, just another one of his off days. 

“Wanted to make sure you’re not...feeling slighted or...or used or anything. I’m… I’m a demon—you’re an angel. I’ve been out doing awful things… Then to just...walk out on you after—”

“My dear, it’s not as if you had any other choice.”

“I could have picked a better time to force you into _that,”_ Crowley said, his eyes downcast again.

“Force? You think you _forced_ me? Oh, you poor thing,” Aziraphale said, sighing softly as he lifted a hand to Crowley’s cheek, stroking it gently. “Don’t speak nonsense. What did you end up picking for me?”

Crowley was silent a moment, then nodded and moved his hands from behind his back. He had a pastry box in his hands which, Aziraphale noted, were trembling. 

“C-Couldn’t decide and...and the shop closed. So I had to wait and...and they’re fresh. Different time zone, yeah? Still warm.” Crowley pushed the box into Aziraphale’s hands, then backed off a step as if he thought he were making an offering to some violent deity. 

“Oh, you truly are most kind,” Aziraphale said, smiling at Crowley who twitched unpleasantly at the praise. He flipped open the lid on the box to reveal three small pastries—a cinnamon roll, a cream horn coated in powdered sugar and a drizzle of chocolate, and a raspberry tart with a white chocolate swirl. “These do look scrumptious! Thank you, my love. Come inside—sit down.”

Aziraphale took the pastry box into the kitchen (snapping his fingers to clear up the feathers left over from his plucking habit) in order to arrange one of the pastries on a plate with a small napkin while miracling for a full and whistling kettle. He brewed himself and Crowley cups of black tea, then returned to his living room to find Crowley sitting stiffly at one end of the couch. 

Oh, he was really having an off day.

“Here you are, my love,” Aziraphale said, pressing the cup into Crowley’s hand and kissing his softly on the corner of his mouth. “How was the rest of your tempting?” It had been a month and a half since their rendezvous at the hotel—more than enough time for Crowley to get into some sort of trouble.

“Awful,” Crowley said, his face turned away toward the wall, his chin resting on his hand which he had propped up on the arm of the couch. “Got someone killed. Hadn’t meant to. But Beelzebub is pleased with the results.”

“That does sound awful,” Aziraphale said, tutting a bit before taking a sip of tea. That explained the bad mood, too. “This tart looks amazing, darling. I really am excited to try it.”

“Yeah?” Crowley turned to look at him, somewhat appearing excited. His sunglasses still hid his eyes, though, and that spoke volumes. 

“Oh, yes.” Aziraphale smiled at him and took a bite. He might’ve overdone it a little on the moaning in enjoyment, but it seemed to please the demon who scooted a little closer to him. “I did enjoy our little encounter back in LA,” he said after the pastry was cleared away. “It was easily the highlight of my trip.”

“Was…” Crowley paused, seeming to choke on his question a bit—his tongue probably going serpent from the nerves, Aziraphale bet. “Was it...successful? Are we… Are _you…?_ Did we?”

Aziraphale set aside his plate, then reached over to steal the sunglasses away from his husband’s face. Perhaps it was cruel, but it helped him to see what emotions were coursing through the demon’s brain. At that moment, he looked pained and hopeful—afraid but so very, very desperate he looked near pleading. 

“We’re not...” Crowley said, his eyes falling—instantly rimming with blood. “I did it wrong—I must’ve… I’m sorry, Angel. To put you through that for nothing—”

“Crowley, give me your hand,” Aziraphale said, holding out his own until Crowley complied. 

Aziraphale slowly guided it to his abdomen where he himself could feel the quiet thrum of life. He’d known the very moment he’d conceived. It felt like a blessing, and all at once he’d understood just how much Crowley had been suffering. A blessing was a torturous curse to a demon. 

“Is… Aziraphale!” Crowley flinched at first, drawing his hand back only to reach forward again in the same instant. “There’s… That’s—Is that mine?”

“They both are!” Aziraphale said, chuckling softly and stroking the back of the hand Crowley had placed over his stomach. 

“Twins? Really—Actually twins? You’re not… You wouldn’t say this to taunt me?” Crowley asked.

“Of course not! Crowley, _feel_ them. They’re right here. They’re _ours._ Two more perfect little hatchlings for you.” Aziraphale watched the look of wonder course through Crowley’s eyes as he scooted even closer on the couch, his hand stroking Aziraphale’s stomach. “Do you feel them?

“Yeah,” Crowley said, that childlike wonder in his voice again as his eyes locked with Aziraphale’s. “And you feel alright? Not sick or—or upset? You’re not upset with me for doing this to you?”

“Darling, we made them together. You didn’t _do_ this to me,” Aziraphale said. “Are you excited, love?”

Crowley’s eyes were back down on Aziraphale’s stomach, his hand sprawled and grasping at the little thrum of lives growing just beneath his fingers. 

“They’re really mine?”

“No, they’re Sandalphon’s—of course they’re yours!” Aziraphale said with a small laugh. “Are you excited?” He asked again, able to tell easily by the demon’s face that he was beyond excited. 

“Two hatchlings… And you’re sure you don’t feel sick at all? I haven’t upset you…?”

“I feel fine, my dear. Better now that you’re home.” Aziraphale opened his arms so Crowley could come closer, holding him tight in a warm embrace. Crowley’s hand stayed defiantly on Aziraphale’s stomach. 

“Twins,” Crowley said.

“Yes, I do believe so.”

“And you’re...you’re sure you’re fine?”

“Without a doubt. I would tell you if I felt sick,” he said, feeling an immense pang of guilt for how he’d unintentionally mistreated Crowley when he’d been with child. He couldn’t say he was sick… There had been a time he didn’t seem capable of forming coherent words at all and Aziraphale had left him alone.

The guilt gnawed away at him while Crowley moved to lay down with his head in Aziraphale’s lap, on his side so could still clutch at Aziraphale’s stomach—their children. 

“I can’t feel what gender they’ll be,” Crowley said.

“It hardly matters.”

“I just want to pick names—can we pick names?”

“I suppose it’s not too early to start brainstorming,” Aziraphale said, stroking Crowley’s red hair—admiring how he’d gone back to wearing it long. 

“Anthony and Cleopatra—if it’s a boy and a girl.”

“Absolutely not. We’re not naming a girl Cleopatra.”

“Ngk.” Hardly an answer, but Aziraphale would allow it for now. 

They sat together for hours upon hours, Crowley relaxing into Aziraphale’s gentle touch while pawing at their growing infants through Aziraphale’s abdomen. 

“Do you want to talk about what happened while you were tempting?” Aziraphale asked, knowing something had gone awry—perhaps more so than the unintended death. Crowley was typically excited to share his stories and wiles. 

“Angel, I think there’s something wrong with Constantine,” Crowley said after a time. 

“Connie? Whatever gives you that idea? Besides the obvious.” Aziraphale began stroking Crowley’s back instead of just his hair, noticing the way scales had begun eating up the flesh of his hands. 

“He disbanded that Church of Mother Angel, but he’s already got another going. This one’s much worse… I thought I’d make easy work of one of the followers. I didn’t realize… Cults and churches, they’re not my forte. I Fell for asking questions—for questioning that in which I was told to place my faith. Connie’s people...he finds such desperate, lost souls. I don’t relate to them. I don’t _understand_ them. I didn’t realize...when I tempted one to leave, start their own church… Connie didn’t know it was me, of course. But he was livid. That man was excommunicated and his sister was in the cult still and… Angel, I don’t know why, but she killed him. She murdered her brother for leaving. Connie told the rest of his followers that what she did was noble, Angel. He told them she’d done well. Something is wrong with my son.”

Aziraphale sat in shocked silence, his hand having paused it’s gentle strokes up and down Crowley’s spine. 

Connie had commended murder? His Constantine? 

“I’m so sorry, Angel… If I’d known, I would have never done this to you,” Crowley said, a tear of blood streaking down across his nose and dripping onto the front of Aziraphale’s tan trousers. “None of it… I would’ve just crawled away after Armageddon and never let any of this happen. I swear it.”

“But then we wouldn’t have Annie,” Aziraphale said dumbly, his heart feeling absolutely flayed in his chest. 

“Our son may as well be a murderer… It’s my fault, Angel. If I hadn’t—”

“Be quiet, Crowley. I won’t hear it,” Aziraphale said, voice shaking. 

Constantine needed spoken to. He needed brought _home._ It was a terrible idea letting him go off to that university, letting him study business with the sharks. 

“What if these two… What if they’re monsters like me?”

“You’re not a monster. Hush now. Connie… He just needs talked to. He isn’t thinking with his heart. It’s the wickedness of his Sin commanding him. He needs to be home.”

“I don’t want you to have them anymore,” Crowley said, his voice shattering. 

“You—What did you… Crowley!”

“They’re going to be monsters like Constantine and Annie.”

“Annie is no monster!”

“She signed Satan’s book! She’s one of _them!_ It won’t be long before Constantine does the same. I ruin everything I touch… I can’t do this to you. Please—please just...just miracle them away. Give them to someone else.” He said the words, but his hand was clutching more and more desperately at Aziraphale’s stomach. 

“Hush. You’re being… You’re being silly. They’re not going anywhere. And mind you, Annie’s signature in that awful book was to spare us both suffering. It was...a noble deed. An act of charity—which, need I remind you, is an _angelic_ virtue.”

“And Constantine? Commending his disciples for murder? Convincing innocent people to turn from God and worship _you_ and me?”

“I’ll talk to Connie. It’ll stop. Please, don’t cry, darling. It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault.” Aziraphale forced himself to resume rubbing Crowley’s back. “It’s not your fault, love. I’m sorry that happened. I’m very sorry… Don’t blame yourself. It’s not you. I promise. Believe me, darling. Believe _me.”_

Aziraphale had no idea if his words or touches helped soothe him, but Crowley remained silent—clutching weakly at Aziraphale’s stomach. 

“These two will be perfect. I’m sure of it. Who do you think they’ll look like more? You or me?”

“I don’t know, Angel,” Crowley whispered, tears still running down his nose. “I… I’m sorry I did this.”

“Well, then I shall just have to prove you wrong. Good will always prevail over evil. How do you think I tempted you into loving me? Good always wins,” Aziraphale said, relishing the tiny smile he got in return for his efforts. “Connie will see the light. He just needs a little more guidance.”

He coaxed Crowley into sitting up and pressed a gentle kiss to his mouth, miracling the tears away as he stroked the demon’s cheek. Crowley made the kiss a little deeper, nipping Aziraphale’s bottom lip until he opened his mouth to let the slightly forked tongue slip inside. Even then, one of Crowley’s hands stayed on Aziraphale’s stomach—clearly already enamored with their children. 

“Welcome home, my love,” Aziraphale whispered as they finally broke apart. Crowley nuzzled his neck and, in an instant, was a serpent wound around his shoulders—where he stayed for two months straight.


	17. Chapter 17

Crowley was lounging on their couch, staring at his tablet with crossed and bleary eyes, blasted drunk even though it was “only ten in the morning, Crowley! Good God Almighty!” He was sipping on white wine because he had drank all of the red and Aziraphale had angrily dumped his final bottle of scotch the week before. (He apologized an hour later and offered to miracle it full again but Crowley declined. He didn’t need to drinking hard liquor anyway.) The story he was flipping through was about half a dozen succulents that appeared in a local man’s refrigerator. He was convinced the plants had been _hahaha_ planted thereby his estranged ex-wife, but security footage showed a mysterious intruder bypassing the man’s security system to leave the succulents behind. Crowley rather liked the way he looked in the blurry, distorted footage. All snake-y limbed and shadowy. A true character for the next series of urban legends—though it was too soon for the news to give him a catchy little nickname yet.

It had been two months since he’d gotten home—making his little hatchlings a little over three months along. He was often checking his watch to see how long before the little babes might arrive, and was always saddened to see how long he’d have to wait. He would have to go out tempting one more time before they were due and that thought scared him. He didn’t want Aziraphale to be alone for that like he had been.

So far, things seemed to be going well for the angel. He was almost always in a good mood unless Crowley did something to get under his skin (which was actually rather fun now that Aziraphale gave in and snapped at him for it), and had showed no negative effects from carrying their offspring. Crowley was thankful for that. He could forgive himself for creating a monster like Constantine, but he would hate himself for the rest of eternity if he put Aziraphale through what he’d experienced for the sake of making more monsters to plague the earth. 

Crowley had just finished flipping through the picture article with its small, fleeting captions when he heard a loud slam in the room overhead. The book room—an addition that had been miracle onto the cottage about a year after Connie was born—was up there, as was the angel, and Crowley felt his metaphorical heart stop in his chest. 

The loud thud came again and Crowley sat up properly, his head spinning as soon as he did.

“Alright, Angel?” He called, loud enough that Aziraphale should be able to hear him. 

He heard something crash upstairs followed by another thud or two—instantly sending Crowley onto his shaky, wobbling feet. He tried to sober himself up, but couldn’t concentrate. He was panicking, knew he needed to keep a level head and couldn’t, but somehow managed to get to the top of the stairs without falling down them. 

“Aziraphale?” He called as he pushed open the door to the book room. He found the angel on the floor, clothes all askew with his pants halfway off. His wings were out—or rather, what was left of them after his ridiculous compulsion for plucking all his feathers out that had gone unchecked for at least fifty years—and there was a little puddle of blood on the floor that made Crowley’s heart seize. 

He noticed that and fixated on it, wanting to cry but frozen in place while his head spun, until Aziraphale’s nervous chuckling brought him back around.

“Oh my. Haha. How did these get here?” He said, shifting around on the floor, blood soaking his previously impeccable trousers, until he had managed to get two eggs, slightly larger than Annie’s had ever been , into his lap. “Goodness. I really hadn’t expected that. Are you alright, Crowley?”

Eggs? He got to lay eggs? That wasn’t fair. Annie was a bird—her familiar, if it could be called that, a tall Secretary Bird. Aziraphale was an angel, not a bird! Angel’s shouldn’t lay eggs.

She was just doing this to spite him and Crowley knew it. She was laughing down at him from Heaven. You, vicious serpent, are responsible for the pain of child birth—of course _you_ had to experience it. Aziraphale is a blameless creature—eggs it is for him!

“Crowley? Love, can you help me?” Aziraphale asked, calling Crowley’s mind back into the room. He was shuffling awkwardly on the floor, holding the eggs carefully and awkwardly—looking terrified of dropping them.

Crowley wanted to move, but his legs didn’t listen. 

How was he supposed to go back about tempting now? The babies were here—not out in the world yet, but here nonetheless! He couldn’t just _go._

“Crowley, please, my love. I-I’m rather sore, if you don’t mind… Can you take them? Or one? I need to heal…”

“Right, right,” Crowley said, shaking his head and taking a moment to sober up (most of the way…okay, part of the way…) before walking over on dangerously serpentine legs. He sank down next to Aziraphale on the floor and held out his hands. Aziraphale pondered a moment, looking down at the eggs, then pushed the palest of them into his hands with a soft smile.

“There you are. Hold her, won’t you?” He said, before cradling his own egg—a soft tan with little speckles—to his chest and snapping his fingers in order to correct his clothes, miracle the blood away, and apparently heal himself as he let out a soft sigh of relief.

Crowley might’ve tried to offer healing, but his eyes were fixed on a soft white, almost lavender-colored egg in his hands. 

He could feel her, his daughter, much more so now than he ever could when he’d placed his hand on Aziraphale’s stomach. He could feel her pulse, her energy—her absolute _joy._

Happy. This tiny little egg was _happy_ to be held by him.

“Do you want to hold him too?” Aziraphale asked, scooting over to him on the floor to where their knees touched. Crowley looked up at him, wanting to say something—anything at all—but only managed a choked gasp. “Here, love. Hold him.” The next thing he knew, he had an egg in each arm and Aziraphale’s head rested against his shoulder.

This one felt shy. It was nervous and Crowley, fearing it was because of his demonic energy, pushed it back into Aziraphale’s arms. A moment later, he tried to do the same with the white one only to have Aziraphale smile at him and turn slightly away. 

“You hold her. I think she rather likes you best. I’ll take care of him.”

Crowley might’ve taken the words to heart, but instead he just focused his attention on the pale egg in his hands. Aziraphale never once tried to take her from him and Crowley, not even for a moment, ever set her down. He paid attention to her energy—sometimes happy, sometimes cold, sometimes too warm. There were days he gently wound himself around her as a serpent, able to hear her inside the egg when he did. 

There was no language for her yet, but there were feelings that came out so much louder like this. She knew he was there and the energy felt as if she smiled at him. If Aziraphale placed a hand on the shell of her egg, she glowed even more. 

Crowley just hoped that once she came out, once she hatched, she’d feel the same after looking at him. He hoped his eyes wouldn’t frighten her—hoped he wouldn’t scale up in nerves and make her afraid. Whenever he had those doubts, however, it was as if the energy inside the lavender egg pulsed louder. It was as if his daughter was saying to him, “Dada, you’re out of your mind. Of course I’ll love you!”

Sometimes, he would be asked to hold the other egg while Aziraphale read or made tea. He had gotten more comfortable with his male hatchling, but it still felt nervous in his hands. “Oh, you’re the other one… If Papa likes you though, I guess you’re alright.” That’s what the speckled egg seemed to say. He did find it odd that the two little eggs, when pressed side to side, said nothing to each other. Weren’t twins supposed to be close? Impossibly close?

Maybe one was more demon and one more angel… Maybe they hated each other. 

Crowley fretted over it, but whenever it was mentioned, Aziraphale would just smile and shake his head.

“You’ll see. Just be patient. Let me hold my son.” He’d take the speckled egg away and Crowley could focus on his little daughter. Sometimes he felt as if he heard her laughing in there… 

Sadly, though, the eggs were laid shortly after Crowley had just come home from his three months of misdeeds in LA. Which meant they still weren’t ready to hatch by April when it came time for him to leave again. Annie had arrived and gawked over the little hatchlings-to-be, and then asked her Dada why he wasn’t getting ready to leave.

“Can’t… Can’t put her down. What if something happens to her?” He asked. “Surely I still get parental leave, like with Constantine.”

“You only got time off with Constantine because your head was a mess and Beelzebub pitied you,” Annie said, quite harshly. “She’s going to come up here and be very mad! I don’t want Satan angry at me again!”

“Again?” Crowley asked, but Annie didn’t elaborate. 

“I’m going to have to go back down there and tell her you won’t leave—is that what you want?”

That’s what she ended up doing, bringing back with her a very displeased Beelzebub.

“I tempted the angel,” Crowley said, trying to make it sound like a brag as his boss glowered at him.

“You’re married. It hardly counts. Put the egg down and go.”

“I won’t,” Crowley said, feeling like he must have some sort of leverage keeping Beelzebub from discorporating or otherwise punishing him for disobeying.

“Crowley…”

“Come on, Beelzebub—I’ve done so good the past few years. I took down the Pope! The _Pope!”_

“Bastard,” Aziraphale grumbled, holding his egg a little closer.

Beelzebub stared at him, the flies around his head buzzing angrily. 

“Perhaps we can come to another arrangement,” Beelzebub said, his voice almost too sinister for comfort. “We’ll borrow Constantine then, in lieu of you.”

“Oh, leave Connie alone, Beelz! Please,” Annie coaxed, pouting and resting her head on the rotting prince’s shoulder. “I’ll stay and work and Dada can stay here with the egg til it hatches. What’s three months when you have eternity?”

And so Beelzebub let it slide. He really had gone soft for Annie—or so Crowley had mistakenly allowed himself to think at the time.

“Fine. But as soon as those things hatch, I want you Downstairs. Immediately. Not a week later, not the following Spring. Immediately.” So Annie and the prince had left, Annie’s arm around his rotting shoulders, leaving Crowley to his eggs.

And, once it had been established that Crowley wouldn’t be leaving, they settled into the longwinded debate over names.

They bickered continually over names while Crowley was committed to his A and C theme that had presented itself with Antigone and Constantine. 

“We’re not calling them Agamemnon and Clytemnestra! Give it up, you stupid old snake!”

“Then what about—”

“I will let you have Anthony, but we’re not naming our daughter Cleopatra!”

“But then the theme doesn’t _work!_ It’s Shakespeare—like you _wanted.”_

“I’m not naming my daughter after those awful people! Pick a different name or I will choose for both and it will be Amadeus and Ceres!”

“Ceres? No! You can’t possibly be serious!”

“Then pick a better one!” 

It wasn’t fair Aziraphale got to cry “mood swings” even after laying his eggs.

“I just think it’s a wonderful name,” Aziraphale argued, two tears working their way down from his eyes. “Amadeus. Like Mozart! I _love_ Mozart.”

“He’s one of ours, you know?” Crowley reminded him. 

“His music was wonderful!”

“Amadeus is literally a call to love the Almighty! He’s a half-demon! It’s a recipe for disaster, Angel,” Crowley implored, only succeeding in making Aziraphale cry harder.

Well, how was he supposed to say no to him now?

_“I_ love the Almighty! Perhaps my son will as well!”

“It’s not that I don’t,” Crowley argued, “it’s Her who hates _me,_ remember? _She_ renounced me!”

Aziraphale’s only answer was to cry more, and so Crowley relented just to make him stop. Aziraphale only seldom cried, and if it meant that much to him—if he really needed to name their half-demon, probably evil incarnate son “love God,” then they would. Crowley would just find a way to live with it.

Maybe he’d call their son Ammy or something. Certainly not just “Deus.” Lord Almighty, literally help him if he went around calling their son “God.”

Please, please, Crowley thought to himself, don’t let this one somehow be the second coming of Christ. He really wasn’t ready for another Apocalypse.

And so it became that their son was named Amadeus and their daughter Cassandra. The speckled egg gave no acknowledgment when his name was spoken, but the little white-lavender one practically squealed in joy any time Crowley or Aziraphale spoke her name to her. 

This included Annie who came to visit several times to check on the progress of the eggs with fascination, and Constantine who arrived late one night (alone for once) to see what all the fuss was about.

“Eggs! Well, I’ll be damned! Mother, you’ve really outdone yourself on this miracle,” Constantine said, seeming to miss altogether the way his ‘mother’ leaned away from him whenever he got too close. 

Crowley could tell that Aziraphale still loved their son, but the relationship was strained—and the love felt come more from obligation than actual delight. Aziraphale was an angel; he therefore loved everything, including quasi-murderous cult leaders and false prophets.

“May I hold it, mother?” Constantine asked, standing before the plush reading chair where Aziraphale sat with Amadeus wrapped up in a knitted pouch. (He had made a similar one for Crowley but he refused to use the black and red sling. He was worried it would unravel and send his daughter crashing to the floor. He would rather just have her in his arms directly, thank you very much.)

“I don’t think it wise,” Aziraphale said, looking away from him—clearly sorry to disappoint. 

“Oh, come on now, mother! I won’t drop it! I want to say hello to my little disciple.”

“He’s a child of God, not a disciple, Connie. And no, you can’t hold him,” Aziraphale said, firmly, holding the egg a little closer to his chest.

“Come now, mother. I won’t drop it. Let me have a look at the little thing!” Constantine, clearly not used to hearing the word no, started to sound angry.

“Leave it, Constantine,” Crowley said, ignoring the cold glare he received. “Sit next to me. You can touch her, but she stays in my lap.”

“Fine, fine,” Connie hissed, sitting down heavily and reaching over with a not-so-gentle hand to grasp the egg. 

Crowley, for one terrified moment, believe he was going to hold it so tight that it popped. 

But, after a brief moment, Connie’s grasp relaxed and he stared down at the egg in wonder.

“Well… I didn’t expect that. She’s an active little thing, isn’t she, father?”

“Yes,” Crowley said, feeling the way his daughter, at first, cringed away from the unknown touch and then warmed to it. It wasn’t her usual ‘laugh’ or mirthful voice, but it was an acknowledgment. She knew her brother was there and was communicating something to him. Something that had Connie staring at her in wonder.

“What a marvelous little thing… I think she’s cold,” he said, and took off his coat. He draped it over Crowley’s lap and the egg. “Yes… I think she’s better now. Hello, darling…” He kept fussing with the coat, tucking and untucking it from around the egg.

At first, Crowley though it was for show—so Aziraphale would see how affectionate he was being and allow him to hold the speckled egg—but then he realized it was, somehow, genuine. Connie, who knew only to take and take—never give—was wrapping his coat around the little egg because it told him it was cold. Told him and not Crowley… 

“How is the church, Constantine?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley feared his son would snap, jerk his body in some way that caused damage to the egg, but he didn’t.

Quite calmly he answered, “Oh, I’m thinking of disbanding this one.” He slid his hand down the wall of the egg and Crowley, this time, felt it too—the strange, nearly flickering pulses of energy coming from inside. “Yeah. This one isn’t going very well at all. My people can do better elsewhere.”

Constantine pulled his hand away from the shell of the egg and took his phone from his pocket. Using the stylus stored in its side, he scrawled on the screen in silence a while looking pensive.

“Disband it, you say?” Aziraphale asked.

“It’s done,” Connie answered, leaning back on the couch and reaching over to place his hand on the egg. “I didn’t really like them anyway.”

“Do you like anyone, Connie? Truly?” Aziraphale asked, holding his own egg a little tighter.

“I love you, mother. And father. And Annie. The rest…well, they’re just…toys. Little toys for me to play with. _But,_ I haven’t had to pay rent in decades or buy my own food. It’s wonderful. Everyone is so happy to pledge themselves to me…except you, mother. I don’t think I’ll ever convince you to join us.” 

After a few more awkward hours of conversation, Connie left after focusing his goodbyes on Aziraphale and Crowley’s lavender egg.

“That…was rather odd. Wouldn’t you say, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, moving to sit next to him on the couch and patting the top of their daughter’s egg, still wrapped in Connie’s coat. 

“Yes… You don’t suppose…they could both be greed, do you? Cassandra and Connie? He gave her his _coat._ When’s the last time Connie gave someone anything?”

“I’m not sure,” Aziraphale answered, smiling gently. “I suppose we shall have to wait and see what the Almighty has in store for us.”

( ) ( ) ( )

Amadeus hatched first. Aziraphale had been making tea, the little egg snug in the sling he had knitted himself. He’d just finished pouring the tea into his cup when he heard the deafening crack. He set the tea pot down quickly, fearing he’d spilled tea on his child and harmed him. The egg was no worse for wear despite a long crack running along its side.

“C-Crowley! Crowley, come quick!” Aziraphale said, sinking down to the floor and moving the egg carefully into his lap from the sling. His husband was at his side in no time at all, their little lavender egg with him and wrapped carefully in his arms as he sank to the floor. 

“D-Did you drop him?” He asked, voice shaking.

“No, no. Nothing of the sort—I think he’s ready. I think it’s time!”

Crowley looked over Cassandra’s eggs, spying no cracks of her own, and then focused his attention on their son. It took most of an hour for him to shed his shell completely, Crowley and Aziraphale gasping and aww’ing the entire time in encouragement. A little golden-haired, blue-eyed boy who wouldn’t let go of a large piece of his shell—holding it over his chest like a shield of some kind. 

Aziraphale laughed at that, tears lining his eyes, as he tucked Amadeus up in his knitted sling. Once he was covered in the woven yarn, the little baby let go of his shell so Crowley could carefully pull it away, setting it aside on the floor. 

They had a few good hours to enjoy Amadeus’ company before their little, white-lavender egg started to hatch. Crowley flinched when he heard the first crack, the same way Aziraphale had with Amadeus, then stared in wonder as his little girl pushed her way out to the air. Crowley was shaking the whole time, Aziraphale realized, constantly looking up at the angel as if for reassurance while their daughter hatched in his arms. A couple of times, Crowley tried to pass the egg to him, but Aziraphale politely declined. 

He needed this. He needed to bond with her, see that it was alright to hold their children. He wouldn’t corrupt them.

Cassandra, a tad bit smaller than her brother, had white-blonde hair and yellow eyes—and a smile on her face as soon as she looked up at her Dada. 

Aziraphale got to watch as Crowley absolutely melted, holding her closer, snuggling into her—weeping over her, whether with joy or sorrow, Aziraphale couldn’t be sure. All that mattered was she was here now and Crowley was no more able to set her down than he had been when she had lived within the protective walls of her egg. 

Except he had to—to meet with Beelzebub as he’d agreed. 

His punishment, Aziraphale learned, when Crowley did return to Hell a day or two after the eggs hatched was to have Beelzebub literally rip the tongue from his mouth and shove his head into the lake of sulfur and not let him up for two days straight. 

It was agonizing and awful as it sounded and he told Aziraphale that he’d tried hard to get away, but Beelzebub was a prince and had far too many followers watching the spectacle for him to get anywhere. It took a long time for his tongue to grow back and his face to heal, even with his magic, and he spent the time cowering in the cottage with Cassandra in his arms. 

Beelzebub hadn’t truly wanted a meeting—she just wanted to torture Crowley for making her look soft. It made Aziraphale angry, but there was nothing he could do. His miracles healed some of the scarring Crowley’s couldn’t reach, but only time made the marks go all the way away. 

Luckily, thankfully, Crowley was able to express his misery and move past it—focusing his love and attention on their babies. Once his tongue had grown back, he got to share the good news. Beelzebub agreed to let him stay above ground for ten years, just as he was able to do with Constantine. 

That, at least, was a relief. They could go back to being a happy, inseparable family. 

Anywhere they went, Cass was in his arms. Anywhere at all. Aziraphale did the same with Amadeus.

It wasn’t to say that Crowley rejected Amadeus or had no interest in his son, but Cassandra had—in a very odd way—become his new fixation, the way Connie had been, only without the odd behavior. He would hold Amadeus if asked and would let Aziraphale hold Cassandra without any complaint or look of panic. He would smile at his son just as sweetly, cuddle him just as much, but was always eager to trade back to hold his daughter instead. 

As they got bigger—ever so slowly, as was usual for their lifespan—it became more apparent that Amadeus would prefer to be with Aziraphale, and Cassandra with Crowley. Amadeus liked books and print, especially the antique children’s books Aziraphale had been given by Adam after the failed Armageddon. Cassandra liked music and videos—and particularly the combination of the two. Musicals became her favorite obsession and Crowley quietly sat through them all—Cassandra usually in his lap or hugging his arm from her seat beside him on the couch. 

It absolutely shattered Aziraphale’s heart when they had to be separated the April after the twins had turned ten. The children didn’t understand and Crowley cried blood over them as Annie watched disheartened from the doorway, trying to encourage her father to leave or he would be late for his meeting with Beelzebub.

“Beelzebub is going to eat you alive,” Annie said as she hugged her father goodbye, wiping his tears off on the long skirt of her dress. “Tell her I forgot to mention there’s a new bottle of prosecco under the fish-egg bucket in the kitchen. Love you, Dada. Get on before you change your mind.”

And she pushed him out the door, Crowley still trying to say an additional goodbye to Cass who was crying hysterically in her Papa’s arms. (Amadeus was watching this spectacle from the couch, a picture book in his lap open to a photo of an owl.

“Tell me he’s not as bad with our little lady as he was with Connie,” Annie said, petting her crying sister’s hair while Aziraphale tried to soothe her. They had met several times, but not soften that Cassandra was comfortable being held by her just yet. 

“Not as bad, no,” Aziraphale said, kissing Cassandra’s cheek. “They’re just very attached.”

“I want him to come back!” Cass cried, holding Aziraphale tighter as she cried into his neck, her words almost incomprehensible. 

“He’s never set her down, has he?” Annie asked, smiling at her serpent father’s predictable behavior. 

“Hardly. They’ve never been apart.”

“He’s going to be horrible when he gets home,” Annie said, sharing a sad and knowing smile with Aziraphale who could already feel the cracks forming in his heart. He was not looking forward to that…

( ) ( ) ( )

Crowley wasn’t surprised when he reported Below and was immediately met with Beelzebub’s dissatisfied face peering at him darkly. He did not, however, expect him to have his son Wrath at his side. Crowley had managed not to run into him at all since their fight—since he’d discorporated the monster which now seemed to have another body, identical to his first, no worse for wear.

“You’re late,” Beelzebub said.

“It’d be odd if a demon were to show up early. I invented being fashionably late. I remember your signature on the memo, commending me, in fact,” Crowley said, trying his best to sound like himself despite the fact that his heart was laying in tatters within his chest.

“She doesn’t need to hear your mouth running when she didn’t ask a question,” Wrath growled, baring his teeth as if he were in his jackal form. 

“Didn’t know he needed you to speak on his behalf. How are you, son-in-law?” Crowley asked Beelzebub without missing a beat, rolling his shoulders in feigned disinterest.

“Awful. I’ve been kept waiting,” the prince answered.

“Ah. Annie wanted me to deliver a message for you,” Crowley said, watching the way Wrath tensed at the mention of his ex-girlfriend’s name. His new step mother—funny how things worked out.

“Does she indeed?” Beelzebub asked, looking just as irritated as his son.

“She said there’s a new bottle of prosecco with the fish eggs bucket in the kitchen. Why do you have a bucket for fish eggs?”

“Because I eat them,” Beelzebub said, matter-of-factly. Though he did, indeed, look pleased with this message. Crowley was absolutely certain that it made the difference between Beelzebub sending him to work for the three months as opposed to spending the time torturing him.

When Wrath was sent away very shortly into the meeting, Crowley was beyond positive that torture had been the prince’s agenda. Wrath was meant to help and now served no purpose at all. 

“How are the hatchlings, Crowley? Ugly and mangled?” Beelzebub asked.

“Oh, the most hideous—vile creatures. I have photos.” And he overshared them on his large phone screen.

“Yes. The girl is most definitely dreadful. Looks like her sister around the face just there. Annie and I are discussing an egg.”

“Oh, are you?” Crowley asked, hating that idea but pretending he didn’t.

“Yezzz.”

“I bet Wrath is overjoyed for you.”

“He’zz my apprentice. He’z learning to be an executioner of demons.”

“I see. And you had him to meet me because…I was late?”

“I thought you’d be later. Leave me waiting two days again and perhaps you’ll be better acquainted with his new skillset. I will tell you now, between the father of my wife and myself, in confidence, Wrath only works with me while Annie is Above. I wouldn’t burden her with his presence.”

Crowley bit back the compliment he felt budding in the back of his throat and looked down at his phone—changing the background to a picture of Aziraphale and their two smallest children. He already yearned to be home.

“We have a case for you this time, so none of your usual gallivanting,” Beelzebub said, commanding Crowley’s attention. “There’s a charity needing stopped. They fund research to end a new disease that Hastur released twenty years ago. We can’t afford to have all our hard work thrown away. You’ll stop them—and if you can make them fall fast enough, I’ll even let you get home early. How’s that sound?”

“Early?”

“Yes. Complete the mission and go home. Annie can even stay and finish out the three months.”

“You’re really serious?” Crowley asked, the deal sounding too good to be true.

The Lord of the Flies stared at him, flies buzzing all around his head irritably.

“I was told if I were _nice_ enough,” he buzzed in disgust, “and made her happy enough, it would be easier for her to produce an egg. I truzzzt you understand?”

“Of course. Won’t let you down. I’ll get right to it. The file’s with Dagon?—Lord of the Files?”

“Yezzz. See to it,” Beelzebub said, then disappeared from the room—probably going to dig up that bottle of prosecco from its place with the fish egg bucket.

What in the world did Annie see in this monster?

Regardless of his sentiments toward the prince, Crowley got his assignment and went back above ground to America again—where Connie once again was—and did his job. He found the charity, joined it, dissolved it from within by spreading lies and deceit about the founder and his history of skimming funds off the top. Easy. Took maybe a month and a half before the scandal broke to the news, a few carelessly sent emails leaked to the media, and the charity was shut down and dissolved. In fact, the leader was even arrested before Crowley gave his report to Beelzebub.

“Perfect. Tell Annie to bring pizza when she comes home. Three.”

“Pizza’s hard to get these days,” Crowley mentioned in passing. Beelzebub rolled his eyes at him, produced a rather jagged looking bank card, and handed it to him. 

“She knowzzz the PIN. Three pizzas. Tell her. I’m too buzzzy to go Above myzelf.” 

And so, a new arrangement was made. Crowley left for his three months and passed messages between Beelzebub and Annie while the Lord of the Flies trained Wrath in all forms of torture. So long as Crowley was obedient and didn’t show up late, he was spared from being the test dummy. He was more than alright with that.

Working fast meant he got to go home to his daughter sooner—and that as all that mattered, even after those times he had to suffer under Beelzebub’s reign. (He was a demon, he couldn’t _always_ be on time.)

The years ticked by like that, Crowley getting to spend a small bit more time with Annie when he could accomplish his temptations fast enough. Connie would sometimes be home too—giving their cottage a comfortably crowded feeling Crowley wouldn’t trade for the world. 

Annie and Amadeus would sit on the couch and talk books together—argue themes and ideas and _scruples_ of all things. Cassandra and Constantine would talk about the world—about all the places Connie had been, the people he met, and the gifts he received. Cass would ask him about the people, what they hoped for—what they wanted more than anything, and Connie would fumble for the right words and give up. Half the time, Crowley realized, their conversations ended in Connie abolishing his church (only to start a new one as soon as he was out the door).

Cass had that effect on a lot of people. She had a way of talking to them that cleared their minds, opened their hearts to good. Amadeus, similarly, had a way of calming them—reining them in and making them contemplate their actions and dress. At twenty-years-old, he had a way of making even the brashest of street crawlers cover their nakedness in shame just by walking past them. 

“I don’t think they’re sins,” Aziraphale said one morning over tea. 

Cassandra and Amadeus had gone out to buy bread and cheese.

“I don’t think so either,” Crowley answered, smiling at the angel through the cloud of steam rising from his cup.

“Virtues, perhaps?” Aziraphale asked, grinning just as much.

“I suppose they must be. Have you seen the way Annie acts whenever ‘Deus is around?” Crowley asked. “She wears sweaters and long pants. I don’t think she’s covered her chest since she was twenty-five.”

“Chastity?” Aziraphale proposed. “I’ve never seen him show interest in anyone in that particular fashion.”

“Neither has Connie. I don’t think he’s ever had a lover. Neither did I…’til you. Don’t tell me I was practicing virtues by not laying with mortals.”

“I suppose you’re right… Well, what of Cass?”

“Kindness, obviously,” Crowley said. 

“Kindness, yes,” Aziraphale said, smiling to himself and taking a sip of tea. 

They probably would have gone on thinking this for years and years if not for their youngest son bursting through the door with his eyes covered, crying as if he’d someone had beaten him.

“’Deus? Whatever’s the matter?” Aziraphale asked, getting to his feet and wrapping his son in his arms.

“Where’s Cass?—Where’s my daughter?” Crowley asked, standing as well, dread filling his entire body as he moved from their little kitchen table through to the living room where his daughter stood, naked and trembling save for a bag from the grocer’s in her shivering hand. 

“H-Hi, D-Dada. ‘S very c-c-cold today, is-isn’t i-i-it?” She said, her whole body wracked with shivers as Crowley ripped off his jacket and threw it around her shoulders.

“What in the Hell happened? Where are your clothes?—Your shoes? Amadeus?—What happened!?” He asked, unable to control how frantic he felt. Had someone attacked them? Had they molested her? Oh, he’d kill them. He’d find them and kill them.

“Cassandra! Your clothes!” Aziraphale called, late to the party as he left Amadeus—still weeping—to cover the front of his daughter with his own jacket, tossing the bag of bread and cheese aside. “What happened to you?”

“Tell us—we won’t be angry,” Crowley said, smoothing his hand over her hair while she smiled at him feebly, her yellow eyes looking worried.

“Where are you clothes, my love?” Aziraphale asked, kneeling beside her so as to look up at her face instead of gazing down at her.

“I… I gave them away.”

“You what!?” Crowley snapped. He had heard those same words, spoken in the same tone, six millennia ago, and felt them like a slap in the face.

“Gave them away,” Cass repeated, looking down at the floor.

“We do _not_ go giving our clothes away! Cass, how did you even manage to accomplish this? Didn’t anyone stop you?” Aziraphale asked, looking over his shoulder at Amadeus whose face was covered with his hands. 

“The lady was cold and I…I offered my coat and she said she liked my dress…and so I offered it to her and—”

“And she left you freezing, naked in the street!?” Crowley snapped. “She asked for your underpants!?”

“I didn’t want her to be cold…” Cassandra said meekly. Clearly, the deranged woman she had “helped” was a pervert in disguise.

“Cassandra!” Aziraphale admonished. “We don’t give our clothes away! Look how upset you’ve made your brother.”

Crowley didn’t bother mentioning that their son hadn’t offered his coat to shield their daughter from the eyes of the world. They’d no doubt be getting a visit by the authorities later. There was no way the cameras in the town hadn’t spotted her and tracked her here. It truly was getting much harder to live an immortal life undetected in this changing world… 

“I’m sorry, Papa. I just wanted to make sure she was happy. She wanted my dress more than I wanted to keep it from her.”

This same instance happened four more times before Crowley passed the household law that Cassandra could not go out unless accompanied by a parent. 

Where are your shoes? I gave them away.

Where are the sandwiches we sent you for? I gave them away.

What happened to the necklace Dada bought you? I gave it away.

Every time she said it, Aziraphale looked more and more mortified. God definitely had a sense of humor, and She was definitely punishing them.

Crowley hoped the behavior would stop as their daughter grew older, but at thirty she was still doing the same as always (though she had stopped giving away her undergarments even if she did give away her dresses and coats). On evenings and weekend mornings, she volunteered at the local homeless shelter, passing out food alongside Pastor Matthias. He was a nice young man, always polite and courteous when he came around to drop Cassandra off or pick her up so they might walk to the shelter together. He was quite obviously courting her, though neither Aziraphale nor Crowley could get her to realize it herself. 

They’d explained to her, the way they did with all their children, that the locals would grow old and they would not. Friends would get married and have children by the time they were finally done playing childhood games. It seemed to make sense to Amadeus who was as bookish as his Papa, but Cass didn’t understand. Playgrounds were gone and children stayed indoors to avoid being taken and sold or put to work. The only child Cass ever saw was Amadeus growing up… She had never seen death or experienced a friend outgrowing her. 

She was so innocent and naïve—the very epitome of adolescence. Ever vibrant, ever youthful.

Now, looking every bit like a young woman despite her childlike mind, the local men had started making eyes and she was none the wiser.

She didn’t understand that the nice young man, Pastor Matthias, with his fedoras and well-groomed attire, was trying to woo her. She didn’t understand what wooing was, or why courtship was a thing at all. She saw her fathers kiss sometimes—not often anymore since Amadeus always made a fuss at any display of affection (Chastity. He was definitely an embodiment of Chastity)—but didn’t think much of it. She didn’t play dolls like Annie had, making up scandalous affairs between the toys resulting in a plethora of rubber-snake offspring. She watched musicals and dramas and wept for the plight of the characters. Her Teen and Under ratings never baring much more than a gentle kiss here and there to denote romance on the screen. (Amadeus would fly off the handle if there was so much as an exposed breast on the screen let alone true fornication.)

As far as she was concerned, no one besides her fathers had ever kissed her, and therefore no one was courting her.

Matthias, at least, was respectful of her. He never placed a hand on her anywhere except her shoulder as he walked her up the front path to home. For a man of God, he showed no reservations about both of her parents presenting as male. He also never seemed startled when Crowley would strategically reveal his eyes whenever the bloke stayed for tea. Cass had probably told him some story about how they were contacts and her father just wanted to look the part of a snake. (Body modifications to appear animalistic had been in about a quarter of a century ago and some people were still suffering the consequences of their youth, Matthias understood.)

Matthias was respectful and pleasant, not even put off by Amadeus’ obvious judgment. The boy had a way of silently stewing as he watched people interact in a way he didn’t agree with, and Matthias always just smiled politely at him until Amadeus’ eyes fell back on his reading material. He was just as fond of Oscar Wilde and Shakespeare as his Papa.

At least when Cassandra walked with Matthias, she kept her clothes on.

“Mr. Crowley, didn’t you mention last week that your son had a ministry over in America?” Matthias was asking over a modest dinner of mixed grains and braised chicken. 

Crowley was eating simply to uphold the image that he did eat, like a human might, but every bite made him want to vomit. And vomiting was truly awful for snakes.

“Yeah—you could call it that,” Crowley answered. Matthias looked uncomfortably to Aziraphale who shrugged pleasantly.

“He has many endeavors overseas. It’s hard to keep up with them all. Connie has always been rather drawn to the church,” the angel answered. 

“Very well, very well,” Matthias said, speaking like a character in an old novel. Crowley knew the day he met the boy that Aziraphale would like him. Crowley, however, did not. Sure, he was pure and kind and respectful, but he wanted Cassandra for a wife—he wanted to defile Crowley’s daughter and he wasn’t about to let that happen. It was bad enough his oldest was laying with the Lord of the Flies himself. How could he live with himself if he let his youngest run off with a mortal?

“Cass told me that you were once a man of the cloth, Mr. Fell,” he said, looking to Aziraphale who paused with his forkful of food almost in his mouth.

“Oh… She said that, has she?” Aziraphale asked, noting the way his daughter smiled at him affectionately. “I suppose you could say that. It has been quite some time since then, as I’m sure you could imagine.” He placed a hand on Crowley’s shoulder, only to have the serpent lean away.

“Surely you weren’t excommunicated for your husband? The church has gone back to its true, glorious roots these past two centuries—preaching love and devotion, for all of mankind. It’s for _God_ to judge, not us lowly humans.”

“Who’s to say we’re human?” Crowley asked, lowering his glasses only to have Aziraphale go from rubbing his shoulder to slapping it.

“Stop.”

“I’m just teasing,” Crowley grumbled. “It’s my house. I can do as I please.”

“It’s our home, and I wish you wouldn’t.”

“So you’d rather I just hide what I am,” Crowley said, picking a fight simply because it amused him.

“In this instance, yes. I would.” Aziraphale finally took the fork into his mouth and chewed his food. 

“It’s my only wish I could have a marriage as blessed as yours. You two really do get me rolling,” Matthias said, shaking his head pleasantly while smiling at _Cassandra._

“Dada and Papa are great, aren’t they? But Dada doesn’t like when you say that. Do you?” She said, smiling at him with all the love in the world. “Oh, but now he’s embarrassed. He’s really a devil at heart—he doesn’t like being told good things about himself. Sometimes he needs to hear it though.”

“Ah, so that’s why you have the contacts! A devil at heart—man, you must’ve had a wild childhood to think that. You’re such a good family man now!”

“Hear that, Angel? My childhood must’ve been _wild.”_

Aziraphale scowled at him and performed a small miracle to switch the topic to something else. 

“I really do wish you’d be more polite at dinner,” the angel scolded him after Matthias was gone and their twins were upstairs in their rooms. Reading, no doubt, for Amadeus. Watching musicals, Crowley could hear, was Cassandra. 

“I was hardly rude. He’s the one being rude. I’ll have you know, he wants to tempt our daughter.”

“He is in _love_ with her,” Aziraphale argued.

“And she doesn’t feel the same—so he needs to move along.”

“And what if she does?”

“She doesn’t. She doesn’t know what that is and she’s not even fertile. Leave it. I don’t want to discuss it. You’ll make me angry. It’s bad enough I had to swallow all that food while listening to him going on and on like some televangelist.”

“Would it be so awful for our daughter to find a man of God? For Heaven’s sake, Annie is married to Beelzebub!”

“Beelzebub won’t die! This man will die! Cassandra is just a child. Forgive me for not handing her over to him to deflower and abandon when his mortal body gives out.”

“You just don’t want her to leave. I know what this is about.”

“I don’t want my daughter’s heart broken and that makes me some kind of monster? Why do _you_ want her out? So we can have more? I don’t want more—I want Cassandra and I want ‘Deus and I want them both right here where they are! And that’s all I want to say on the subject!”

“What about what Cassandra wants?” Aziraphale asked, in that maddeningly level tone he got when Crowley had pushed too far.

“She gets what she wants! She wants to volunteer at the shelter, I let her go. She wants to donate all her things to the local church, I let her. She doesn’t _want_ to give herself to him!”

“And what if she does?”

“She doesn’t,” Crowley growled, pouring himself a tall glass of scotch—enough alcohol to kill a man, truly. He felt Aziraphale’s eyes on him and stiffened as he took a large swallow from the glass. 

“Do you really not want more?”

“Not at the moment,” Crowley answered. “Can’t we just enjoy the ones we’ve got?”

For the first time, the thought of more children left him stressed out and nervous. Aziraphale, locked away in his little corner of the world, hadn’t seen how much things had changed. He still referred to their town as the South Downs when now it had been renamed twice over. Bombs went off in new countries, every day. New illnesses and biological warfare were on the rise. The ocean had been drained so badly… Almost half the population of snakes were either endangered or extinct.

No, he really didn’t want any more children to put on this forsaken planet. 

So he took another long drink of scotch and willed the argument to end.

“I hope you don’t think that I would ever force you to have more children than you want,” Aziraphale said, hugging Crowley from behind as he drank. “I’m happy as we are now. I’m always happy to just be with you.”

“Angel… The world is changing. I’m not entirely certain there’s going to be one left before long. I don’t want to make more children and lose them. You have to understand that. There’s whispers in Hell, things Beelzebub won’t let me overhear—things Annie won’t share. I’m _afraid.”_

“No matter what happens, I’ll protect you and our children. All of them. Don’t be afraid.”

“’S not that easy, Angel,” Crowley said, taking another drink. He didn’t want to say it out loud. If Hell and Heaven went to war again, if the two went against the humans, he was absolutely terrified he would have to watch his family die. He had more to lose now than he had in Armageddon. Losing Aziraphale had been the worst thing he could imagine, but that was one loss. 

To lose him and their four hatchlings… No. He couldn’t even fathom it. He couldn’t stand it—

“Dada? There’s a spider in my room. Can you make it go away?” Cassandra’s soft voice pulled him out his thoughts.

“Spider? Where?” He asked, setting his glass down. 

“It was behind my headboard. I’ll wait here, okay?” She said, wringing her hands. 

“Of course. I’ll let you know when it was safe.”

Away he went, to find a spider that didn’t exist until he’d mentally willed it into existence just to crush it. 

As he did, his daughter—unbeknownst to him—was smiling at her angel father and said, “He needs to feel like he’s protecting someone. You should let him do that more. Even if it’s not what you want, he needs to know you count on him, too. No one wants to be the burden, Papa.”

She said it so matter-of-factly, with such an innocent smile. It was almost as if she didn’t understand the weight behind her words. Or, perhaps, with the electricity shining in her eyes, she did know. Maybe she knew more than she would ever let on.

After all, Crowley needed something to care for—someone to protect. Who better than an innocent, naive little daughter?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like the new development! Going to try doing a little more world building in the next chapter as we enter into the final act! Thank you all so much for reading!


	18. Chapter 18

The world was changing. Crowley had finally taken the time to go out and really look at it while doing his misdeeds this time around. The cyber terror of WWIII had come and gone and WWIV was gearing up to collapse what was left of the global economy. Maps were rewritten, government leaders renamed from kings to presidents and presidents to kings. More countries were speaking a dialect Crowley had never experienced before, talking mostly through digital devices even when they were seated side-by-side. Food shortages were a subject of every day news reports. Water scarcity was a rising concern while the oceans were being drained and filtered and purified, consumed and dumped as hazardous waste. The animals that were left even looked different…

There were days Crowley thought it would have been better for all of humanity if he’d just let Armageddon wipe them out. 

So, in this changing, chaotic climate, he made his way home a week early—knowing Beelzebub would hardly care after the memo he’d sent to Dagon and the prince regarding his corruption of America’s largest religious university. The school president was involved in some sort of affair with several students and Crowley just so happened to have figured it out the moment before one of the girls went public with it. Taking a page from his old book, the old demon claimed credit and now was going home to claim his reward.

“Annie, my girl!” He called, throwing open his front door to find his redheaded daughter dancing in the living room with his golden-haired daughter to some tune that had his husband cringing. At the sound of Crowley’s voice, Annie’s weird undulating abruptly stopped and she whipped around, beaming, before tearing across the room and jumping into his arms.

“What are you doing here?” She asked, wrapping her legs around his waist so he had no choice but to carry her in across the threshold. 

“You weren’t due home for another week!” Aziraphale said, coming over with Cassandra. Amadeus remained seated on the couch.

“I’m not home. I’m in America, working,” Crowley said, kissing Annie’s cheek and gesturing for her to jump down.

She obeyed, and laughed boisterously as she hurried over to the speaker to turn down her music.

“I was teaching Cass how to dance,” she said.

“I wouldn’t call that dance,” Amadeus said from his seat on the couch. He had his nose buried in a book. He was, quite literally, an exact clone of his heavenly father save for the splash of freckles on his cheeks.

“Don’t be rude,” Annie said, boxing him on the ear playfully.

“Where’s Constantine?” Crowley asked, noticing his oldest son was, at the moment, MIA.

“He went…out again,” Aziraphale said. “With _those_ people.”

“Oh, not again. Who is it this time?”

“A group of sweaty young people committed to spreading the gospel of Gilroy Davis Davidson,” Amadeus answered. “I’m reading their scripture,” he added, flourishing the green cover of the book in his hands.

“Actual print? That’s odd these days. Paper’s expensive.”

“Constantine says it looks more legitimate if you have it in physical form. Anyone can publish and e-book but only a true hierophant can afford a printed book.”

“Can I just take credit for his work? Boy’s obviously a genius,” Crowley said, moving to hug his youngest daughter. She was fully grown now, but to him she was still his tiny little girl.

“Welcome home, Dada!” She said, squeezing him tightly and refusing to let go for the longest time. Crowley wished he could pick her up and carry her like he used to, but Aziraphale always reminded him she was too old for it. He could always still carry her bridal-style if he wanted to. She would probably laugh and kick her feet, thinking of it as a game and not the last ditch efforts of her serpent father trying to cling.

“Yes, a _demonic_ genius,” the angel said, quite disappointed, as he made his way to the kitchen. He returned a moment later with glasses and wine. Annie oo’d and aww’d over it, then let out a disappointed huff upon being told it was not for her. 

“So, Annie, how’s Hell treating you? Nice and hot I suppose?” Crowley asked, smirking at her as he drank the wine she so desperately wanted.

“Oh, Annie hasn’t gotten to tell you the news!” Aziraphale said, beaming and clapping Crowley on the shoulder. 

“News? Should I be sitting down?” Crowley asked, placing his feet up on the coffee table and crossing his ankles, making himself the epitome of relaxed comfort. It felt so good sneaking home when he was meant to be working, sharing a good intrigue with his husband and oldest child. It was a shame Connie couldn’t be home...

“What’s it matter? You already are,” Amadeus muttered, flipping the page in his book. Crowley passed him a look then glanced up at the angel who fidgeted a moment, his smile wavering between genuine and anxious. He was absolutely incapable of telling Amadeus to watch his mouth.

“What’s this news? I’m sitting,” Crowley said, watching Annie closely as she wrapped her arms around Cassandra who was smiling just as much as her sister.

“Dada, Beelzebub and I…we have a little egg together!” 

Crowley felt the grimace pull at the corner of his mouth before he could suppress it.

“It gets better, darling,” Aziraphale said, sounding genuinely happy. Because of course he was—of course he was! He was the one hatchling crazy this time around and he didn’t realize that meant the Lord of the Flies had made a new offspring with their _daughter._

“I doubt that, but go on,” Crowley said, taking a long drink of his wine.

“Beelzebub said that once it hatches, I can stay up here and raise it with you until it’s more…grown. See, she’s afraid that some of the other demons might…try to eat it. Kind of happens a lot down there—demons eating demons. It’s such a strange place. No wonder you preferred Earth,” Annie said, shrugging.

“So you’ll raise it here with your father and, what, I go off working on your behalf?” Crowley asked, not willing to believe he was actually about to get at least a decade of time to spend with his daughter whom he had only seen in passing for close to fifty odd years. 

“No! Of course not! You and I have to teach it how to be a little demon! We can raise it together!”

Crowley did not like that idea at all, but merely shrugged and let the sentiments work themselves out in his chest. Baby? Good. Beelzebub. Bad. Annie at home with Baby? Very good. Aziraphale around to be distracted by a hatchling? Perfect. Dream come true.

“Names?” Crowley asked.

“Oh, it’s Beelzebub’s decision,” Annie said, rolling her eyes. “I hope it’s something good. She said she won’t choose until the egg hatches. Says she needs to ‘see it to know.’ Silly thing.”

“Dada, I want to show you what I did with my room!” Cassandra said, very clearly having been waiting her turn to speak, as Annie sat down in her Papa’s reading chair. 

“Redecorating again, are we, my doll?” Crowley asked, looking at Aziraphale. They had specifically discussed before he left that Cassandra’s redecorating needed to be stopped. She’d already repainted twice in the past year. He was really tired of shelling out for new paints just for her to get bored and change her mind.

But she was “Aziraphale’s” daughter, so she got whatever she wanted. 

“Yes! Come, come! I want to show you,” she said, grabbing her father’s hand and pulling him up onto his feet. Crowley sipped his wine as he climbed the stairs, the wall of the staircase now lined with photographs of his four children and all of the cats Constantine had collected and lost over the years.

“Where is that quilt I just bought you?” Crowley asked, examining the new bed and furniture. Aziraphale really needed to stop enabling this. He didn’t know why he asked the question, he already knew the answer. 

“I… I gave it away,” Cassandra said, smiling and scratching her head anxiously.

“You—You what!?” He knew it was coming, and yet it still shocked him each and every time. This was a nice quilt—handmade in Canada by an order of very good Satanic nuns. He wasn’t surprised she had given it away like everything else she owned, but he was surprised Aziraphale or Amadeus hadn’t seen and stopped her. Or at least _Annie!_

“I gave it away,” Cassandra repeated, sounding a little meeker. “There was this man down by the water—I saw him from my window.”

“Cassandra, that wasn’t for you to _give away!_ We’ve talked about this! I got that for you…” He couldn’t exactly be angry with her any more than he could be angry at Annie for being flirtatious or Constantine for being overwrought with greed. 

Cassandra was charitable, so charitable in fact she often saw fit to give the very clothes off her back if a family member or Matthias wasn’t walking with her. 

“But he was so very cold, Dada…”

“You also shouldn’t be going down and talking to men by the water! Remember what your Papa and I told you. Humans are dangerous—they have dangerous impulses. Stay in the house where your Papa and I can protect you. I don’t want you _hurt.”_

“I know, but he was so cold!”

Crowley wrapped his arms around her again and squeezed, willing some of his demonic energy into her body to no avail. 

“Can you please…please just go back in your egg where I can keep you safe?” Crowley asked, thinking back to when she had been just an egg. A perfect, safe little egg he could carry with him wherever he went.

“But then I wouldn’t get to be with you, Dada! Or Papa,” Cassandra said, snuggling into his chest as if she were just a little child again. “Promise you won’t go away again.”

“I’m home now,” Crowley said, smoothing her blond curls. “I won’t have to leave again for a long, long time yet. How can I make it up to you for leaving? Hm? I’m sure I could rustle up something sweet for you.” Pastries and frivolous food were in short supply, and that which was available cost an exuberant price, but it would be worth it for her—and for the angel.

“I do like scones… Do you think we could get scones for me and Papa?”

“Of course,” Crowley said, sitting on her bed with her while she told him about how she’d come to her decisions about how to redesign her room. It began as it always did—with something she’d seen on the internet. Matthias had helped to repaint and move the furniture as he always did and said something to her along the lines of “I’d love to have you help make my house more into a home.”

That had Crowley livid, but he swallowed it down with his wine. She didn’t understand. She didn’t need to understand—he was content to let her think he was just jealous of another man trying to share his daughter’s attention. 

Give it another two decades and Matthias would be old and wondering why Cass and her parents didn’t age. He was already starting to wonder why Annie and Cass looked the same age when they were supposedly fifteen years apart and not over half a century. 

He’d figure out why Cassandra had told him her father was a devil at heart, that was for sure.

( ) ( ) ( )

Never in all his life had Constantine Gilroy Davis Davidson been so disheartened, so betrayed. In his midst was a traitor, a Judas at his last supper. It took all of his willpower to hold back his tears as he handed each of his disciples their evening ration of food in the field outside their makeshift compound. He had found an old, abandoned church left rotting and crumbling for who knows how long, and had turned it and the isolated property around it into a home for himself and his followers. They’d been going strong for four whole years, learning from him and singing him praises while exchanging all of their earthly possessions for a place in his paradise. 

They didn’t need to worry about food shortages for Gilroy Davis Davidson would feed them. They didn’t need to worry about water scarcity for Gilroy Davis Davidson had found an untapped underground spring from which they could drink. They didn’t have to worry about war or being drafted into service for Gilroy Davis Davidson protected them from legal prosecution by eliminating their existence from the global databases thanks to a few crafty members of the GDD Monastery. 

He gave them shelter and clothes, warmth, love and food. And this was how they repaid him.

Letting a sneaking little reporter slide into their midst and not telling him. 

“Can you perform any true miracles?” Judas asked. (His real name was Paulo, but Judas fit him better.) “Can you prove your mother is a true angel? Your father a real demon? Can you bring them here?”

His questions begat more questions begat more questions until all of his followers were muttering to each other that maybe Gilroy Davis Davidson wasn’t all he claimed to be.

Their proclamations of love no longer sounded legitimate. Their reciting of his prayers and scripture were no longer enthusiastic.

Some members had even packed up and left, hoping to rediscover their lives outside of his Monastery. 

“My life to mine own,” Constantine said, handing over a plate of food to a young woman with her head down. She met his gaze only briefly and he saw in it hatred. 

They had submitted themselves to him willingly, and yet here they were loathing him for taking all of their offerings for himself. They hadn’t handed all that stuff over with the intent for him to share. That had never been part of the deal!

“My life to mine own,” he said. Again and again as he handed out plate after plate after plate. “My life to mine own.” Until the very last of the queue of eight hundred childless men and women, lost souls who sought in him friendship, light, and comfort, had been served and took their seats. “Eat, my friends! Eat and share in drink! For tonight you _will_ witness my miracles!” He declared to his congregation, sat on rows upon rows of crumbling picnic tables. He had built a stage at their center, so no matter which way he face, he faced his crowd—and no matter where one sat, they could get a good look at him as he paced around and around a growing fire. 

He watched them feast ravenously for they had all been called to fast the night before. They scarfed and snarled and smacked their lips, grabbed their cups with greasy hands and slurped. 

“Regard me, my family! _My life_ to _mine own!”_ And, as he willed it, Constantine transformed to a vicious animal unlike any they’d ever seen before outside of pictures on the extinct species list. A black panther, all claws and fangs and midnight-black fur. His yellow eyes gleamed in the fire light and his roar was to be heard for miles. 

His followers screamed, some clapped, they all stared in shock and awe as he circled the fire—leapt through it even—and made a show of his divine, dark, demonic nature. 

“You all,” he roared, “have made a spectacle out of me! You _all_ have shown doubt _to me!_ I, who have sheltered and protected you!”

At the tables, the members began spluttering and stumbling, sobbing and choking. 

Suffering. They all began suffering except Judas who had gotten to his feet and was looking anxiously around at the people nearest him—his eyes eventually landing on Constantine who was stalking over to him, all four of his paws digging their claws into the dirt with rage.

“I will show you the price of your betrayal! The cost of your sins against me! Judas, I expel you!”

Constantine leapt, crashing into the reporter with all of his weight—his teeth sinking into that exposed, tan throat and ripping, ripping, ripping.

( ) ( ) ( )

When Beelzebub found Constantine, he was laying on his back in clothes soaked with blood, both laughing and crying with his hands over his face. He was next to a smoldering fire and surrounded by the dead bodies of well over eight hundred people. It was hardly Jonestown, but it was nothing to sneeze at either.

Lord Satan was pleased. Very, very pleased.

“I can see you’ve been very buzzzy,” they said.

Constantine lowered his hands, exposing his crazed, yellow eyes. 

“Oh, it’s you, my brother! I expected my mother,” he said, laughing a mournful laugh which turned to tears.

“Lucky for you I made it here firzzzt. Up you get. We have a lot of ground to cover.”

“No—their bodies are a message. They disobeyed me. They asked questions. They demanded I prove my miracles. The world will know what happens when you disrespect Prophet Gilroy Davis Davidson!”

Beelzebub leaned down and smacked him, leaving a filthy residue of rot and slime on his cheek that wriggled with maggots. That got his attention.

“You’re not a prophet, remember? You’re the son of a demon. Pull yourself together! Leave the bodies as they are and come Below.”

“Below? But I haven’t died! I didn’t eat the food!”

“Lord Satan is very pleazzzed with you. He wantzz you to come Below and meet with him. Lord Satan hazzzz a reward for you. Your attendanzze izz not negotiable,” Beelzebub said.

“I can’t go looking like this. Let me change first. Let me—”

Constantine was trying to run off, run back his parents to hide behind them and their disappointment as he always did. Beelzebub snagged him by the shoulder and struck him again—this time with a fist to the jaw.

“Bloodier the better. I was told if you refuzzze too much, I will bring your father down to face punishment in place of reward. We will firzzzt slice out hizz gutzz, then fill the festering gap with scorching brimstone. Then—”

“Alright, alright,” Constantine said, waving his hand and cutting off the torture Beelzebub had been fantasizing about since the foiled Armageddon. “Let’s go, brother.”

Beelzebub grabbed his hand and pulled him down through the muck of the earth, down further and further and led him through stuffy hallways and endless staircases. All the while, Constantine twisted his neck around at all the sights to be seen.

“This was nothing like I imagined in my scriptures,” he said.

“Your zzzcripturez are liezzz!” Beelzebub hissed at him. “Don’t mezzz thizz up or Annie will pay the price. You don’t want to know what _I_ will do to you if you make _my Annie_ pay the price for your arrogance! Thizzz iz the Lord of Darknezzz himzzelf!”

Constantine stared at the large door in front of him wordlessly, blinking and gawking before grabbing the handle and opening it without knocking or asking permission. 

Beelzebub felt they might just discorporate on the spot.

“WHO ENTERS?” Boomed their master’s voice.

“It’s me—Er, Constantine Gilroy Davis Davidson.”

“CONSTANTINE CROWLEY? BROTHER OF ANTIGONE CROWLEY?”

“Ah—yes, that is… I suppose so, but I don’t identify as a Crowley. My father is more of a Crowley than me, my brother. I’m more of a Gil—”

“Brother!?” Beelzebub snapped. This idiot, _this_ idiot was being brought before Satan for a reward!?

“Welcome,” came the voice of Satan, softer now like a feral purr. “Enter my chambers, Constantine Gilroy Davis Davidson, renouncer of Crowley, remorseless executioner of eight hundred souls.”

“I wouldn’t say I’ve renounced him, broth—Satan, Sir,” Constantine bumbled, looking at Beelzebub’s hate-filled expression.

“You may call me your Lord Satan. You may call me the Beast. You may call me Lord of Darkness. You will not call me your brother.”

“Right. Forgive me, my Lord of Darkness. I’ve never spoken to a Lord before.”

“Your sister bowed before me in the dirt to plead for my mercy many years ago.”

“Annie has always been much better at these things. I do apologize, My Lord, if I offended you.”

Beelzebub continued glowering at him, wondering how he’d managed to get so far whilst being so dumb. And also wondering if the stupidity, like Crowley’s, was an act. It wouldn’t work on Satan, so why bother trying?

“The time for apologies has passed now, my child. Come forward and I shall bestow upon you a reward.”

His voice was so sinister that Beelzebub was truly surprised at how readily Constantine approached the massive throne and the even greater horned beast which sat upon it. Unlike with Antigone, Satan appeared this time in his true form—all red flesh and large horns. Constantine seemed right at home with the monsters. 

“Closer, my child,” Satan said as Constantine stopped some twenty-odd paces away from the throne.

Constantine looked nervously back at Beelzebub who crossed their arms over their chest. He continued forward until Satan ordered him to stop.

“Is that the blood of your fallen disciples upon you?” Lord Satan asked.

“Yes, it is.”

“And for the shedding of that blood, you feel no remorse?”

“Why feel remorse for those who got what they deserved?”

“Don’t answer his Supreme Evilness’ questions with questions!” Beelzebub chided. Satan merely laughed.

“No remorse then?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Not even to think of what that pathetic angel you call mother might think?”

“Mother’s always disappointed. What’s another soul or two?”

Beelzebub rolled their eyes, wishing they could smack their head into the wall. This was like watching a human fall down the longest flight of stairs in the world, and laughing the whole way down. Did he not realize he was digging his own grave or was this some sort of ineffectual suicide?

“I do find great pleasure in your enthusiasm. I have a reward for you—an offering for the monster who condemned more souls in a single day than my fleet of demons have in the past month.”

“Sounds like they could use some pointers,” Constantine said, fidgeting with his hands while Satan reached behind his throne.

Beelzebub, too, was nerve wracked and intrigued about what this offering and reward might be. They had merely been told to go fetch the boy for a reward, and told Crowley would fall in his place if he refused—and that if anything went wrong with his delivery, Annie would pay the price for all of them. 

Like most treats in Hell, it sounded both wonderful and awful. 

When Satan straightened himself in his throne, he had in his hand an embroidered black cloak and two objects of gold which glinted in the torch light. Constantine’s face illuminated as if the precious metal were a brilliant flame as the bundle was lowered before him.

“Constantine Gilroy Davis Davidson—you have secured me one thousand souls in four years alone, and have a promise of at least a thousand more to come once their bodies give out on the earth above. Will you devote yourself to me now, and continue your work with purpose—my purpose, at heart? Will you bring me another wave of lost souls if I were to let you return to Earth above?”

“Of course. It’s what I do best, my Lord,” Constantine said, his eyes still fixed on the glowing bits of gold wrapped in the black fabric.

“How will you further my mission?”

“I will find new followers, new disciples, who will pledge their souls to me—to you—and be none the wiser as they fill my stomach with food and my vault with treasures.” Something dark burned in Constantine’s eyes which Beelzebub hadn’t noticed in the past. A wickedness unmatched by his father or by Annie—Hell, even Hastur’s black eyes didn’t gleam with so much mischief. 

“Constantine Gilroy Davis Davidson, I appoint you the King of the 10th Circle of Hell,” the Devil stated, swinging out the black velvet cloak in his hands and draping it over Constantine’s shoulders. Next came a crown of gold and a matching scepter placed into his left hand. “We’ve built this new circle _just_ for your disciples, so that you may continue to lead them through the torments of Hell. You will have a staff of demons to do your bidding—an employ of the vilest monsters to have ever roamed Heaven and Earth.”

Beelzebub felt their dead heart drop. King? King of a fictitious or, rather, _new_ circle of Hell? Constantine given the same rank as _them_ after having merely done what his nature commanded—form cults and lead them to damnation without even trying?

When Beelzebub had been deemed a prince, they had been given a red sash made of the same rich velvet as Constantine’s cloak—but that had been all. No crown, no scepter, no cloak embroidered with gold and red trim. 

“What must I do to keep this great honor, my Lord?” Constantine asked, kneeling now before Satan, bowing his head respectfully. Of course he showed respect now—now that he had something he deemed desirable laid out before him.

“Pledge your soul to me in the way your sister has. Promise to serve me and my cause, so when the Rapture comes, we may take over all of the Earth and wage our war against the Heavens above.”

“I pledge my soul to you, my Lord, and then I get free reign to do my bidding above? I may form as many churches as I like?—in whatever way I see fit? With whatever message?”

“Yes,” said Satan.

“And do I get to see the souls I’ve sent Below?”

“Yes. They are your disciples after all, waiting for you in your private circle. We’ve even immigrated the rest of the souls damned for worshiping false idols. They are yours to do with as you please.” The Devil was glowing like red-hot coals as Constantine raised his head and grinned a wicked grin—a grin which rivaled Lucifer’s own.

“Show me where to sign and set me to it. I want to swallow Judas again for all eternity!”

Constantine laughed and Satan laughed, so Beelzebub swallowed down their jealous rage and laughed as well. 

“May I ask, my Lord,” Constantine said, after signing his longwinded name into Satan’s book, “for one small favor? I do acknowledge, of course, your Great Evilness, that you may, as you must, if you will, say no.”

“Ask away, my child,” Lucifer said, still grinning wickedly on his throne. 

“May I move my father into my employ? It would please me if we could do our ventures together. He can’t say no to me. He can’t outsmart me. We’re cut from the same cloth.”

“Work for you? During the months of his prior arrangement, you mean? The months Antigone goes above ground?”

“Yes, my Lord. It’ll stop him from wandering aimlessly. I can focus his attentions and use his skills to my advantage. A demon has so many more abilities than my form can offer. I can become a panther, but I can’t turn water to wine or disappear a cup. My father would be so useful in luring people to worship us—worship you.”

“Or you might let him sneak off home to be with your angel mother—the subject of half your cultzzz,” Beelzebub hissed.

Constantine fixed them with a peculiar glare—angry eyes with a devilish smile.

“If I’m not mistaken, Beelzebub, I am of the same rank as you going forward—I will not tolerate you speaking to me in that tone of voice, and do not mention my angel mother in front of me again.”

Beelzebub felt white-hot rage tear through them, humiliation burning their chest, hotter than brimstone. Crowley would pay. Oh, Crowley would pay for this!

“Calm yourself, my child,” Satan said with a laugh. “Beelzebub has always been possessive of his underlings. Sitting on that egg day in and day out hasn’t helped his mood at all, now has it?”

Beelzebub sank inward at the mention of their egg with Antigone. If Satan saw fit to punish them by smashing it, he would. If he saw fit to boiling it and feeding it to Antigone, he would. 

“No, my Lord,” Beelzebub sighed, trying to choke down their hatred and rage.

“Constantine, I will gladly put your father into your service on one condition,” Satan said.

“Yes, my Lord?”

“Punish him at every turn for every misstep. Beelzebub has proven a fine torturer of demons. I won’t have that sorry little snake getting off easy because you’re his boss. If I find he has disobeyed your commands in any way, or that you aren’t making use of him at all, I will transfer him back to Beelzebub and he will ensure the behavior is permanently adjusted—just short of discorporation, I assure you. He’s no use to us without a body to boil, heal, and burn all over again, and I detest paperwork.”

“He’s sensitive about his wings,” Constantine said, surprising even Satan (pleasantly) with the viciousness in his voice, “bad experience up in Heaven. If he disobeys me, he won’t be having them to fuss about at all anymore. And I hear…the angel who did is now Below. Perhaps he can be transferred into my employ as well. He could give me pointers. Oh, yes… I think he could give me very great ideas.”

“You want the Fallen archangel?” Lord Satan asked.

“If I may have him. If you think he might be good for convincing mortals to follow my plans.”

The negotiated back and forth while Beelzebub quietly stewed in personal rage and a nearly empathetic agony. Wrath. Constantine reminded them of Wrath.

Wrath who was now, too, pledged to work under Constantine instead of Beelzebub. 

Beelzebub thought of Crowley in that nest of shed feathers and blood, how he’d wept and crumpled and lost all sense of himself. They thought of how attached he’d been to Constantine as a baby, how he’d practically fallen apart the first time he had to leave to perform his three months of misdeeds. Crowley loved that awful monster with all his heart, and there was Constantine throwing it away on threats to rip off his wings with the help of the Fallen archangel Gabriel if his father disobeyed—and his father most definitely would. 

And so the structure of the newest Circle of Hell was decided. Constantine ruled as King, Wrath serving under him as a Duke, Gabriel as an Under-Duke, and his father a title-less peon meant to do his bidding but only three months out of the year—as per the original agreement. 

“Beelzebub, show Constantine to the main entrance and exit. This is the only way he may return, and he’s expected to return at least once a month if his schedule allows. If not, send one of your demons in your place to explain your absence and report your progress. We expect _horrible_ things from you.”

Satan laughed, Constantine laughed, and the very Earth above trembled with it.


	19. Chapter 19

The Rapture was coming, Constantine knew now. He had been attending meetings in Hell, and had been invited to join the Dark Council. He reviewed petty temptations, offered his insight into how to make them better—bigger!—and met the fallen angel who had ripped off his father’s wing over a century ago. He didn’t like Constantine, and Constantine didn’t like him. Wrath, for what it was worth, also hated Constantine.

It would be horrible business if demons went around _liking_ each other.

Gabriel, he learned rather quickly, was charming for all of five seconds, but had no idea how to behave himself above ground. He was useless in the churches Constantine was planning to open as he had a stupid way of talking down to every human he encountered which chased them off. Constantine therefore sent him below with the others. 

Could he have put together a more incompetent staff? Wrath was just a mass of anger and rage and hate, unable to hold himself together for the time it took to be likable and trick a mortal. He wondered what Annie had ever seen in him during their nearly lethal love affair. 

The Rapture was coming, which made for a great setting for his churches. No one knew how long it would take to arrive, but there was time left to cause trouble. The birth of the seven sins and seven virtues was a clue to when it would break—seven messengers of Hell and seven messengers of Heaven. So far, the only sins missing were Gluttony (probably neck deep in a bowl of ice cream or something as they spoke) and Envy. When it came to the virtues, Hell was at a loss. 

Cassandra and Amadeus were the only two they knew about.

“Perhaps we should kill them!” Announced the demons on the Dark Council. “Take them and smash them—kill those worthless little worms before they can do any bidding for the place Above!”

“Kill my siblings and watch what happens,” Constantine had said. He, being one of the kings, was respected and they politely shut up. He was one of only two royals who bothered to attend the meetings. The other was Beelzebub who buzzed angrily the whole time. Annie showed up sometimes, but Constantine preferred it when she did not. She almost always ended up behind the desk with someone before the meeting was over and it was absolutely repulsive. 

Rapture, to Constantine, meant that all the good souls would go to Heaven, and all the bad ones would be left behind for the demons to pilfer. Hell would get control of Earth which spelled chaos for the Angel Mother. Would he be called back to Heaven with Cassandra and Amadeus? Would he go someplace so far out of reach that neither Constantine nor Annie, nor their demon father could reach him?

He did not want to see the day that his father was forced to walk the Earth alone. He was so dependent on the Angel Mother. 

Constantine had to do something—had to think of something—in order to change the mind of God. She couldn’t just snap her fingers and rip families apart like it was no big deal! Why—it was just as cruel as summoning a flood to drown the whole planet! 

So what was he to do about it?

He didn’t know, but moonlighting as a demon in Hell was a start. At least here he had access to information. At least here he had support and insights so he wouldn’t be caught off guard. It was a shame his coworkers couldn’t be more likable, though. He had had just about enough of their stupid, senseless wickedness and the Tuesday dance parties his sister and Beelzebub hosted weren’t enough to distract him.

At the conclusion of the latest Dark Council meeting, Constantine went back above ground and returned home to find his father and mother snuggled up on the couch like love birds while Amadeus studied an old novel. Cassandra was staring out the window over the kitchen sink, sighing to herself as she watched something far off in the distance. 

Probably saw some person she wanted to give her belongings away to again. She was always doing that—sometimes giving the literal _clothes off her back._

Something about the gesture made Constantine laugh and shudder. How many people had he tempted to do the same for him? Cass didn’t need any convincing. If she saw someone wanting, needing, she gave them all she had to offer. (Except her body of course. The men who tried to engage her ended up maimed or dead. Sometimes because of her demon father, sometimes one of Constantine’s followers would be put to the task. The only exception was her good friend Matthias who, so far, had not crossed the line.)

“You two look cozy,” Constantine said, as he locked the door behind him. 

“Connie! Welcome home, my dear boy!” His Angel Mother called, trying to sit up only to have the demon he’d been laying on tug him back down. 

Ah, so they were having a _moment._ Splendid. 

“Why do you stink?” His demon father asked. 

“What do you mean? Such a rude thing to say, father! A ‘good evening’ would suffice.”

“He’s right, though,” Amadeus said, always sticking his opinion in where it wasn’t wanted.

“If you must know, I’ve been Below.”

“Visiting Annie?” Angel Mother asked.

“You could say that,” Constantine answered. He had yet to explain the situation to either of his parents and was waiting for the day of the exchange to bring it up—Beelzebub promised to be there, to make Constantine’s proclamations sound legitimate. 

Truthfully, Constantine was dreading the day. His father was a very disobedient demon, and not in the good way. Hearing that his son was now his boss was going to make him think he could get away with things...and Constantine was going to have to prove to him in the very worst way possible that that wasn’t true. 

Contrary to what many people might think, he did have a heart, and it broke to think of what he was going to have to do to his father who was currently snuggling into his Angel Mother’s neck. He looked so happy and content… 

“Crowley, darling, let me say hello.”

“You already have. Stay here,” he said, words slurring. 

Ah, so he was drunk too. Splendid.

“Oh, you really are needy tonight,” Angel Mother said whilst laying still again. “How is Annie?” He asked Constantine who sat down in his father’s throne across from the couch.

“She’s well. Spends most of her time carrying around her egg when the prince isn’t watching it. She and Beelzebub love the slings you gave them, mother. Beelzebub especially.”

“That’s good to hear—and Beelzebub is doing well?”

“Why d’you care about him so much?” His demon father asked, his face buried in the lapel of Angel Mother’s jacket. 

“She’s our...son in law. I’m just being polite. Really, now. Stop being difficult.”

“Beelzebub is doing well, mother. What about you and father?”

“Oh, we’ve been just wonderful. Right, Crowley?” Angel Mother stroked the demon’s hair with affection, trying to get him to reply with more than a sleepy hum. “He’s had quite a lot to drink,” he added when the demon only slurred something indecipherable. 

“Enough to kill a human,” Amadeus said.

“Oh, husshhh,” his father hissed. “How would you know?”

“Be polite,” Angel Mother said.

“I’d know. I read. Unlike some people in this house.”

“Deus, be polite. Remember that it’s your _father_ you’re speaking to,” Angel Mother said, somewhat sternly. It was almost impossible for him to be truly harsh with Amadeus. The little golden-haired cherub was so very clearly the Angel Mother’s favorite. 

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Hatessss me,” his father hissed, very quietly into Angel Mother’s neck. No one argued.

Angel Mother looked to Constantine sadly and they shared a knowing glance. His father’s sickness continued on—seeping it’s poison into their family day in and day out. Constantine couldn’t even imagine how much worse it was going to be after he had to inflict his punishment on his demon father in April. It was his only hope that it didn’t destroy him completely. 

He would have to put his faith in the Angel Mother and pray that he could keep his father alive and in one piece when all was said and done. It wouldn’t be easy—but great plans seldom were.

“Crowley, I am getting up to make tea. Let me go.”

“I’ll get it!” Cassandra called from the kitchen, effectively stealing Angel Mother’s excuse to get away from the demon who clung to him.

“More wine,” the serpent hissed.

“No! Absolutely not! Let me up.”

“Ffffine.” 

Constantine knew how this was going to end before his father had even finished hissing. He let go with his arms and latched onto Angel Mother as a serpent instead. For some reason, Constantine preferred him that way. It seemed right and natural. 

They sat and talked a while, drinking tea while his serpent father slithered back and forth on the couch between the Angel Mother and Cassandra. 

Amadeus held a fair amount of contempt for their father, but Cassandra loved him heart and soul. He was her favorite thing on Earth—always had been. She would kiss his nose whenever he was a serpent and spend hours on end running her fingers over his scales—never seeming to make the connection that she was stroking his naked skin. Constantine never let his father touch him when he was a snake for that very reason. He didn’t want to think about where that skin had been.

( ) ( ) ( )

Cassandra carried her father with her upstairs to her room, sitting down on her bed with his body wrapped around her shoulders. 

“Do you think we could go to India again before you go to work?”

“Of coursssse. India...next weekend. What should we bring back for your Papa?”

“He really liked the scarf we got last time,” she said, laying back against her pillow and pulling her father out a bit so she could kiss his nose. He flicked his tongue out, tickling her nose in return. “Maybe some shoes?”

“He’ssss fusssy about his ssshoes,” her Dada said, coiling around her arm and giving a gentle squeeze. “Issss there ssssomething Amadeusss would like?”

“I did see him looking at ceremonial clothes. Maybe we could find a traditional ceremonial outfit for him. I’m sure he’d be very excited.”

They planned their trip a little more, Cassandra knowing deep down that they wouldn’t be going anywhere. Her Dada had been having one of his bad weeks and had been clinging to her Papa for the past few days—and would continue to do so for at least another week. 

It was okay. She understood. 

Cassandra kissed his nose again and giggled as he slid behind her neck and back out the other side. 

Downstairs, her Papa and Connie were arguing—shouting. It was unnatural for her angel father to raise his voice, but Connie had a way of bringing out the worst in him—the way Amadeus brought out the worst in her Dada. 

“What’s your favorite place you’ve ever been?” Cassandra asked him, rubbing the top of his head with the tip of her finger. He was a very small snake today—his shape reflecting the way he saw himself. Today, he was small and insignificant. It made her sad.

“Eden. It wasss beautiful there. Such as shame I happened to it.”

“What was your favorite part of Eden?” She asked, booping him on the nose just to see him recoil the startled way that snakes did when something touched them that they didn’t expect.

“Your Papa… And the trees.”

Downstairs, something shattered and Constantine was shouting louder. Her Dada lifted his head, staring at the bedroom door. He wanted to go downstairs and interrupt them, but he didn’t. Her Papa wouldn’t have wanted him to.

Cassandra, from the day she had hatched, had an inkling for the things people wanted—the things they needed. Her Dada wanted, always, to be near her Papa. He needed to protect him to feel worthwhile. Sadly, it seemed more often than not, it was her Papa who protected her Dada instead. Right now, her Papa was saving her Dada from Constantine’s rage. He’d already been hurt by Amadeus tonight—he didn’t need wounded by Connie too. 

“What’s your second favorite place you’ve been?” Cassandra asked him.

“Home… With Papa and you and Annie. I missss Annie.”

“Me too.” She continued to stroke and kiss and boop him—keeping him distracted from the fighting. “What’s your favorite thing you did together?”

“I took her mountain climbing. She had sssso much fun. She wasss so sssmall ssstill. She sssat on my shouldersss at the top of the mountain. It wasss like we could sssee the whole world.”

“I liked when you took me to that island no one’s seen before. The one with the funny mice.”

“I liked that. We should go back ssssometime. They sssstill don’t know it’sss there.”

Downstairs, her Papa had raised his voice even louder.

“Eight hundred and six people! Connie, you’re a monster! An absolute monster! Don’t you realize what you’ve done!?”

Her Dada dropped from her shoulders and coiled up on the bed—a tiny little spiral with his face buried. He wanted left alone. He needed someone to tell him it wasn’t his fault that Constantine turned out this way.

“Dada, I think I’d like to stay with you and Papa forever. If I were to go away like Annie or Connie, I would be so lonesome without you. I love _you,_ Dada. You’d let me stay here, right?”

“Alwaysss. Thisss isss your home. Until you decide we’re not worth keeping.”

“You’re silly,” she said, picking up his tiny, coiled body and holding him in her cupped palms. “I’ll go wherever you go, Dada.”

“Can’t have that… You’d go around undoing all my temptationsss—jussst like your father usssed to.”

“What’s your favorite memory with Papa?”

“Eden,” he said. 

“Other than Eden.”

Something crashed downstairs and Cassandra could hear Amadeus sneaking up to his room, no longer intrigued by the argument. She could sense her Papa crying and knew her serpent father could feel it as well. The door slammed and Connie was gone.

“Other than Eden, Dada?” Cassandra asked.

“The Ritz.”

“What’s the Ritz?” She asked, truly not familiar.

“Usssed to be a place to eat. I should go downstairs—”

“Stay here a while, Dada. Papa needs to be alone right now. He doesn’t want to say something hurtful to you. Papa loves you very much. I can see it when he looks at you—even from across a room. Have you seen it? The way his eyes light up?”

“No...”

“Must be your sunglasses, because it’s there. Papa looks at you like you’re a blessing—a miracle. Papa looks at you like you’re too good to be true, and somehow you are and he has you. Like the luckiest angel alive. Kind of like the way he looks at lemon tarts or _really_ good crepes. Only...with love. He loves you so much.”

She wished she could understand why her words filled with love made her father’s aura become so dark. It often did that when she said nice things to him, as if his heart were trying to block them out. 

“I love you, Dada. Do you love me?”

“Of courssse! More than the world,” he said, looking at her with his little serpent eyes. She tapped his nose again and he affectionately bit her finger, politely asking her to stop. It made her smile. She tapped his nose one more time, just to see him jerk his head back again, then set him down on the mattress. 

“Did Constantine do something very bad?” She asked, understanding very well what he’d done wrong but curious to see her father’s interpretation of the misdeed. 

“Yesss. He alwaysss doesss. He’sss more devil than angel. Jusssst like Annie.”

“Do you think I might end up like that?”

“Evil? Cassss… You’re an angel.”

“I’m no more angel than Annie.”

“You’re my angel,” he said, shifting around until he’d turned into a slightly larger snake. 

“Do you think I could, though? Go bad and never turn back?”

“You couldn’t be any worsssse than your father. He usssed to be a lot like you. Gave away hisss flaming sssword, risssked his statuss to ssave a demon from the rain.”

“My Dada is more than just a demon,” Cassandra said, looking him in the eye as she said it—just to watch the way sadness flickered through them. “My Dada is many things—many good things. I think Dada is more angel than Connie. I think you’re very good.” 

Her Dada started saying something in protest, but she was quick to cut him off.

“Papa wants to see you again. He’s very sad about the fight with Connie. He needs you to tell him he wasn’t wrong to be upset, even if Connie can’t help his bad behavior.”

She pressed a quick kiss to his serpent’s nose and then let him slither off to the edge of the bed where he turned back into his human form. He paused to give her a sad smile before standing up and leaving the room. 

Something very bad was creeping closer. Cassandra could feel it, but her fathers didn’t need to hear that just yet.

( ) ( ) ( )

It took convincing, a great deal of it, but when Aziraphale and Crowley stepped down into the living room as Beelzebub and Antigone arrived, it was actually Crowley hugging her in greeting—welcoming her home. And it was Aziraphale standing to the side, waiting to hug her goodbye. 

Cassandra had told him something of concern three days before Antigone was going to return, and since then Aziraphale hadn’t been able to bite back the feeling of dread. He felt chased—threatened. He felt frightened for Crowley. 

He’d asked to trade places and the demon had laughed in his face and refused. 

“Angel, what do you think’s going to happen if you go out there in my place doing a bunch of blessings instead of temptations?” He’d asked, chuckling. 

“It wouldn’t be like that. It’d… It’d be like the Arrangement. Remember? Oh, please let me go! You deserve to spend some time with Annie after all these years. She won’t tell Beelzebub and I’ll get to go out and see the world. It’s been so long. I’m always trapped here with the children.”

“There’s nothing to see, Angel. The whole place is falling into ruin. It’d break your heart. Stay here.”

“I am Heaven’s ambassador on Earth. I should see it.”

“Well, you’re not anymore. Your place is at home. Get used to it...”

They fought, it got heated on the second day, and then settled on the third.

“I’ll go and if...if it’s as awful as you say or I can’t handle it, I’ll sneak back and we’ll trade places. No one has to know. Please, Crowley. Please let me do this. Just this once.” And, with a few careful and well-placed kisses on Crowley’s neck and cheeks, the demon relented.

“Fine… Just please don’t get hurt. I can’t bear anything happening to you. It’s really not like it used to be, Angel. Please, please come home if anything happens.”

“Nothing’s going to happen to me. It’s not like it’d be my first time romping around in your skin. And the stakes are a lot less high this time around.”

“Except it’s not a couple of days, Aziraphale. It’s three months. Three months of convincing Beelzebub that you’re me. And he _knows_ us now.” 

Aziraphale promised and practiced and rehearsed—remembering that, to Crowley, Beelzebub was a “he” and that he was less interested than ever in the egg Annie and Beelzebub had together. Oh, it would be so hard not to ask any questions at all… But it wasn’t a demon’s place to be all sentimental. 

So, when the door swung open and Annie burst in with Beelzebub behind her looking glum, Aziraphale took a deep breath and readied himself for the show. 

“Welcome home, my lamb,” Crowley said, wearing Aziraphale’s body perfectly. 

“Hi, Papa! How are you? How are things?—How’s Amadeus?”

“They’re both well. How is that egg of yours? You didn’t bring it!”

“No—Sorry, Papa. It’s with Dagon for now. We… We didn’t think it was a good idea to bring him along today.”

“So it’s a boy!” Aziraphale said, mastering Crowley’s inflection. 

“Yezzz. It’zz a boy,” Beelzebub said, coming into their home. “Where are the other two?”

“They went to service this morning. Matthias’ church,” Crowley said, offering up Aziraphale’s trademark little grin. 

“How wonderful,” Beelzebub said. “Not here to bid their father farewell. And I was accused of being a bad parent.”

“You’re a wonderful mother,” Annie said, kissing Beelzebub’s cheek. “Oh, Dada! How are you?” She asked, hugging Aziraphale in her Dada’s body. 

“Good, Annie,” he said, squeezing her tightly—mourning, a moment, that he wouldn’t get to spend the time with her. Crowley deserved the opportunity, though. All these years and he’d only seen her in passing. He deserved three uninterrupted months. It’d be worth it in the end. Worth the stress, worth the nerves. “Hell still treating you alright?”

“Of course! Still have our dances on Tuesdays and I’ve been helping out on the Dark Council.”

“The Dark Council! Well, that’s quite the honor.”

“She zzpendz mozt of her time zzitting on my dezk,” Beelzebub muttered. 

“Oh, but you never complain!” Annie snapped. 

They talked a bit, but as Aziraphale readied to leave, Beelzebub grabbed his arm. 

“Wait. We’re waiting on someone,” she said. 

“Oh? Who?” Aziraphale asked.

“Is Constantine coming?” Crowley asked, making a weird show of wiping some dust off one of the book shelves. 

“Azzz a matter of fact, yez. He izz.”

“I should put on some tea!” 

“Save it. We won’t be here for long,” Beelzebub snapped.

“Beelz—if Papa wants to make tea, let him make tea!”

Beelzebub stared across the room at Crowley who began to look the slightest bit meek in Aziraphale’s skin. 

“I… I guess I don’t need to.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably and shuffled around a bit while they continued to just...wait. 

Wait for Constantine to arrive.

And when he did… Aziraphale felt sick. He had an entourage—Wrath on his left and a twisted version of Gabriel on his right. He wore a golden crown on his head and carried a golden stave in his hand. Aziraphale looked to Crowley whose face blanched at the sight of them. 

“What is _he_ doing here?” Annie snapped, gesturing to Wrath.

“Oh, don’t worry, sister! He’s no threat to you now. I promise,” Connie said. 

Aziraphale and Crowley locked gazes and Crowley gave one firm, defiant shake of his head. 

“No, Angel,” he was saying. “We’re not doing this now.”

It was too late though. Constantine’s eyes fell on Crowley—disguised in the boy’s beloved Angel Mother’s body—and he came to him, arms extended for a hug.

“Hello, mother! Oh, how I have missed you!” He said, inadvertently wrapping his serpent father up in his arms. How long had it been since Connie had willingly hugged his father? How long since he’d shown Crowley any affection at all? 

“Yes… Well, this is a new look. Are we King Constantine now?” Crowley asked, forcing out Aziraphale’s previous tone of contempt for the boy. They’d fought the last time he was home and Aziraphale was not keen to forgive him. He’d murdered over eight-hundred people. If Aziraphale had his way… 

Well, he didn’t know what he would do, but Constantine would not be walking the Earth amongst the humans anymore.

“As a matter of fact, mother, it is. Now, mother, I know you won’t approve,” Connie said, taking a step back from Crowley who was eyeing him suspiciously and with dread. “But it is a great honor! It is _with great honor_ I have signed his Lord Satan’s book and have been ordained the King of the Tenth Circle!”

“Hell only has nine circles!” Aziraphale interjected. 

“Oh, you’re so out of touch, Crowley,” Gabriel sneered. Aziraphale stepped further away from him, eyeing him with suspicion. His presence was more ominous than Connie’s proclamation. 

Constantine whipped around to face him, almost glaring. Oh, if only he knew he was scowling at his angel mother—the one he loved so much. 

“There are ten now, father. Satan made this one just for me. It’s a Hell for all the idolaters. All my followers are there, and all the other sinners of the past. You are the father of royalty now!”

“He already wazzz,” Beelzebub hissed. “Annie has been royalty for decades.”

“That hardly counts,” Wrath barked.

“And no one azzzked you!” Beelzebub roared. “Do not test me! This is not the time!”

“Oo, Mommy’s angry,” Gabriel cackled. 

“Silence! All of you! Except, of course, you my brother, Beelzebub. Speak what you’d like,” Constantine said, grinning vindictively. 

“I’d like to get this over with so I can go home. I have an egg to look after.”

“Yes, yes. Of course, my brother. Father, we’re here for you.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale answered, trying to muster Crowley’s mask of apathy. “Like every year.”

“No. Not like every year, you stupid snake,” Gabriel barked.

“You know what, I don’t take answers from you,” Aziraphale snapped, glaring at the fallen archangel from behind Crowley’s dark sunglasses. 

“Oh, but, father—you do. You _do,”_ Constantine said, clapping Aziraphale on the shoulder. “Gabriel is part of my council. And so is Wrath. You work for _me_ now.”

“What?” Crowley exclaimed, knocking over two of the books on the shelf. “This… This is marvelous news,” he attempted, trying to cover the blunder. “The two of you can work together—spend your summers together. Oh, excellent idea, Constantine!” 

“Yes! I knew you’d come around, Angel Mother! Father, you’ll be coming with me and helping to start my next great church! It’ll be in Old Istanbul!”

“With… With Gabriel and Wrath?” Aziraphale asked, feeling a tad lightheaded. Was this the bad thing he’d been sensing the past few days? His son, a king of Hell? If so, he’d made it all the more worse by volunteering to go in Crowley’s place. If he hadn’t Fallen for his sins in the past, he certainly would now for willingly leading the humans to worship a false idol. It was a direct violation of his angelic nature to do such a thing. It was so unlike any of his other temptations. 

“You’re starting a new church, brother?” 

The new voice caused everyone to stiffen. A fly which had been buzzing around Beelzebub instantly dropped dead. 

“Matthias,” Aziraphale said, turning to face Cassandra and Amadeus who had come up the front walk to the cottage, Matthias leading the way. “You’re back early.”

“Yes. I’m afraid the power went out again. Very hard to conduct service in the dark. Did you say you were founding a new church in Istanbul?”

“Old Istanbul,” Constantine said, fiddling with the golden stave in his hand. 

“Were you just in a play, Connie?” Cassandra asked, slipping between the demons at their doorstep. “Hi, Beelz. How are you?” She said as she passed her sister-in-law.

“Fine. You should take your friend away,” she buzzed, sounding almost afraid. Yes… Aziraphale realized it now. Beelzebub was terrified. Whatever Constantine had planned was bad… 

“Matthias, come inside. I’ll make us tea,” Amadeus said, gaping at Wrath and Gabriel as he made his way into the cottage.

“Take a picture and it’ll last longer, you brat,” Gabriel hissed.

“You will not speak to my son that way in _my_ house!” Aziraphale snapped, forgetting a moment that it was Crowley’s voice he was commanding—and that he’d just been told Gabriel was his superior.

“Are you going to let him talk to me that way?” Gabriel asked, looking to Constantine. 

“Cass… I think we’ve—”

“Yes, Matthias, we have. Come. Let’s make tea.” Cassandra took her friend’s hand and led him into the kitchen, Amadeus following after them with his eyes still on Gabriel.

“I’ve told you a hundred and one times, my brother, not to speak ill of my siblings,” Constantine said. “If you so much as look at them again, I’ll have your eyes and your tongue. Want to try that again?”

“I asked if you were going to let _him—”_

“I said silence! Do _not speak!”_ Constantine yelled.

“My dear boy,” Crowley interjected, “we do have a...human present. If you don’t mind… I’d like a word with your father in private and then I think it best you all go.”

“Oh, mother! I didn’t mean to upset you. These fools—they don’t know any better. I’ll have them better trained next time. They won’t even dream of raising their voice to our _dear_ Amadeus!”

“I should like them to avoid our house altogether. I hardly think it necessary to bring your council with you to see your sister off. Beelzebub has never—”

Constantine laughed heartily, as if Crowley had just told him the greatest joke. 

“Beelzebub is a lazy fly! Of course he didn’t bring anyone to see his softer side—all domestic with you and father and Annie!”

“I will have your head, you worthless hybrid!” Beelzebub snapped.

“Beelzebub, I think… I think it’s best you go,” Annie said, hovering awkwardly between her father and her spouse. “This is about to turn into a bloodbath—and not the kind you like. Right?” She attempted a smile, but Beelzebub was glaring through her at Constantine who was snickering like a little boy who had pulled a great prank. “Beelz, please.”

“You think so highly of yourzzzelf, but you’re nothing. I wazzz of the firzt to Fall. I have alwayzz been at Lord Satan’zzzz side. When it comezzz down to it, child, he will choose me over you. And you will be nothing when he’zzz done with you.” It was spoken like a threat—a true and vile threat. 

Whatever was going on in Hell, Aziraphale realized, had shaken a lot of the demons to their very core. 

“You really think that’s true, brother?” Constantine asked, smiling.

“This has gone on too long,” Crowley said. “I think it would be best if you all saw yourselves out. I’d just like one moment to speak to my husband—”

“No, mother, I’m sorry. I think we all ought to go, you’re right. But I know for a fact if I let father have another minute with you, he’s not going to come quietly. And I have strict orders to make sure he obeys my every whim… Can’t lead him into temptation just to punish him, right? That would be something your side dreams up.”

Across the room, Aziraphale felt his stomach drop. Crowley was staring at him like a caged animal—feral and ready to snap. Constantine was hugging him again while Crowley stood stiff and unresponsive in his arms.

“Oh, do forgive me, mother. It’s not that bad. You’ll see him in a few months—no worse for wear. To the best of my abilities. I promise. We’re just starting up a church. It’ll be lovely. I’ll send you photos.”

“I want to puke. Aren’t you done yet?” Wrath snapped. 

“Remember who you answer to, you worthless demon scum!” Constantine boomed. Wrath’s lips curled into a snarl seconds before Gabriel smacked him on the arm. 

“Wrath—play nice. You’ll get your mother all worked up. Right, Beez?” 

“I will discorporate the both of you. Do not push me.”

“Leave Prince Beelzebub alone. You are all so much trouble—not even worth the trouble,” Constantine growled, stepping away from his presumed Angel Mother in order to step outside. “Come. Come father. No more time to waste.”

Aziraphale looked across the room to Crowley who was frozen by the bookshelf, shaking his head no, desperately pleading in silence for Aziraphale to stay. 

“I’ll see you round, love,” Aziraphale said, trying not to sound too indifferent. Whatever was about to happen, he was glad it was him. He was glad he could navigate the unfamiliar terrain as opposed to poor Crowley who had already endured so much. 

He didn’t deserve to suffer under Constantine’s abuse—or to walk shoulder-to-shoulder with Gabriel who had once ripped the wing off his back. 

He deserved to be home with Annie. He deserved to be surrounded by the children who did love him, who did respect and care for him. 

Aziraphale kept the thoughts active in his mind as he was led down to the scarcely familiar depths of Hell. 

“I want to show him the egg,” Beelzebub said almost as soon as they entered into the reeking depths. 

“Now?” Constantine asked. “We have so much to plan!”

“You need to get your workers in line first. I will not be disrespected by them again. Not ever again. And if you back them when them when they insult me, that means I take issue with you. It can be you against them, or my forces against yours. Take your pick,” Beelzebub growled, a ferocity showing in her blue eyes that had even Aziraphale feeling uneasy. 

“Fine—fine. Show him your egg. Shall I get you in, say an hour or two?” Constantine asked.

“Make it two,” Beelzebub snapped. “At least then I can make myself believe you’ve done _anything_ to correct his treacherous behavior.”

“Fine,” Constantine hissed. “Two hours then. Father, I’ll see you in a while. We’ll go over our plans. Bring some of those great ideas I see all the memos about, yeah?”

“Of course,” Aziraphale answered, shrugging indifferently as he watched his son walk away with Gabriel and Wrath. 

Those two were enemies of their family… What was he thinking? What sort of _monster_ was he?

“Come, angel,” Beelzebub said, pulling Aziraphale out of his thoughts as forcefully as an electric shock.

“I—I don’t—”

“Lie to my face and see what happens. You’re no match for me down here and you know it. I know who you are. You can’t fool me twice. Come. My chambers are private, but we don’t have much time.”

With one last look over his shoulder, Aziraphale followed the Lord of the Flies through the crowded halls of Hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope this chapter isn't confusing! It was surprisingly difficult to describe them switching places?? But if I lost anyone, they did the body swap again because Cassandra may have told Aziraphale that Hell has something wicked planed for Crowley--and neither of them want to see Crowley hurt again. At least...directly. 
> 
> One more oomf and we're on our way to clearer skies, I promise!


	20. Chapter 20

Crowley felt as if his entire world had just shattered before him. His eldest daughter was hugging him, asking him what was wrong, while his youngest two children were in the kitchen keeping the human distracted. 

Aziraphale had just left in his body—left for Hell—with his twisted eldest son, the angel who had previously tortured him and ripped off his wing, and the monster who tried to kill their daughter. 

Crowley had never felt more afraid in his entire existence, and there was absolutely nothing he could do. He couldn’t storm down into Hell and yank Aziraphale out—that would only serve to get the angel killed or worse. He had to stay here, stay at home, and do nothing.

Absolutely nothing…

“Papa? Papa, what is it? Please… Please tell me. Is it Connie? Oh, I know it’s a big change… It shocked me, too. It’s crazy to think, isn’t it? Connie, a king of Hell.” Annie was droning on and on, rubbing Crowley’s back in a soothing manner that somehow made his wings itch. “How come he gets to be a ‘king’ anyway? Beelzebub and I are married, yet she’s still just a prince. I hope he doesn’t outrank her. That would just be…silly.”

“It’d be impossible,” Crowley said, still staring at the closed door. “Beelzebub was one of the first to Fall alongside Lucifer… But then again, so was I.”

“So were…? What? Papa, what are you talking about?” Annie followed as Crowley walked over to the couch and sank down into the cushions. “You didn’t Fall, Papa. Don’t be—” And then she froze, suddenly realizing exactly what had happened. “Dad? Oh… Please, please tell me it isn’t true.” She collapsed next to him on the couch, a fair bit of space between them. “Oh, no. No, no… Papa can’t be—please say you didn’t. Tell me you didn’t swap bodies again. Tell me that’s not Papa who went with them!”

“It was his idea,” Crowley said, covering his face with his hands. “He begged me… He _pleaded._ If I’d had any idea… If I’d known _Constantine_ was going to be involved, I would’ve said no. I never would’ve let it happen!”

“Why did he want to go?” Annie asked, her hand tentatively coming to rest on Crowley’s shoulder.

“He said… Your father said he wanted me to spend some time with you,” Crowley said, feeling his heart shatter. He loved Annie more than the world, but he wouldn’t trade Aziraphale’s life for three months with her.

“Dada, what are we going to do?” Annie sighed, her head falling onto his shoulder beside her hand. 

“I can’t get him out… Hell doesn’t know about the swap… Unless Constantine has told them. Do you suppose…?”

“I don’t know, Dada. I don’t know what he’s done,” Annie said, sighing heavily. 

“He said they were going to start up a church in Old Istanbul. I think… I think I’ll go there. I’ll meet them there and make him swap back.” It could work. If he could track them down and bide his time, it shouldn’t be too difficult for him to catch the angel alone. 

“Papa? Do you want some tea?” Cassandra appeared in the doorway, holding a tea tray with enough cups for all of them. It wasn’t truly a question at all. He would have tea, because his daughter had apparently decided he needed it. She often seemed to know what he needed better than himself, so Crowley nodded. 

“I hope everything’s alright, Mr. Fell. You seem a bit shaken up,” Matthias was saying, sitting down in Crowley’s throne while Amadeus—eyeing Crowley as if he already knew he was an imposter—sat down in his Papa’s chair. Cassandra sat on Crowley’s other side and poured the tea for him.

“Everything’s fine,” Crowley said. “How was service?”

“Oh, it was lovely today. Absolutely amazing. The congregation was so receptive. I think we’re really getting through to some of the newcomers.”

“We most definitely are,” Cassandra said, passing Matthias one of her gentle smiles that Crowley just _knew_ the man coveted. 

“My tablet died halfway through. I forgot to charge it. I had to read off Mrs. Klasky’s when we sang the hymns,” Amadeus said, flashing the dead device. 

“You mean you don’t already have them all memorized?” Annie asked, chuckling.

“I don’t like to sing in front of people. I forget the words when we sing,” Amadeus mumbled.

“That’s exciting news about Constantine opening a new church,” Matthias said, smiling around his teacup at Crowley who wanted to glare at him but couldn’t muster the strength. “You must be very proud of him.”

“They’re not churches. They’re cults,” Crowley said, standing up. “I need to lay down for a while. Excuse me. Annie, so sorry. I’m just…overwhelmed.” He set his teacup aside and made his way up the stairs—careful not to let his eyes linger too long on the photos of his eldest son that lined the staircase. 

He had a terrible feeling—an absolutely wretched feeling—and didn’t know what he could do to calm himself enough to think. 

( ) ( ) ( ) 

Aziraphale had finally gotten to see the egg. It was being kept, for the duration of Beelzebub’s time Above, with Dagon in the bedroom Annie and her wife shared. When they entered the room, the demon was all wrapped up in purple velvet blankets, the egg nestled down into her lap where she was cooing at it—admittedly mortified when Beelzebub walked in with who she presumed to be Crowley.

After a few moments of stuttering and fumbling, Dagon had slipped out of the bed and out of the room after passing the egg to Beelzebub. She handed it to Aziraphale with a simple “don’t be an idiot and drop him,” and then discussed names and ideas for what to do with the nursery. 

She was waiting until the egg hatched to formally name her second son, but was leaning heavily toward Bacchus. It wasn’t Aziraphale’s favorite name in history, but it was infinitely better than “Wrath.”

He spent most of the time visiting Beelzebub’s quarters carrying around the egg in the sling he had made for himself when Cass and Amadeus had been small. He was pleased to see that Beelzebub and Annie had use for him since Crowley had preferred to carry their daughter in his hands—not trusting the sling.

When Connie arrived to retrieve him, Aziraphale had almost forgotten the tension between them—had admittedly almost forgotten who he was supposed to be. A suspicious look from Constantine brought him back to focus and he was more careful with his facial expressions after that. Crowley wasn’t one to walk around looking pleased. 

“Let me show you our plans for the church, father. I think you’ll be quite impressed. I took some inspiration from what you did with the old M25 and brought that to life in my architecture.” He showed Aziraphale to a dingy office where Gabriel and Wrath were fighting with an antique projector screen. Such a thing would only still be used in the reeking pit of Hell. “I’ve had my people secure the funds and start construction. It’ll be finished by next week, they say. And then, we’ll head up there and get to work.”

“Get to work doing what, exactly? What is it you need from me?” Aziraphale asked.

“Well, that’s the thing. I had hoped I could use your magic to sway followers for us, but apparently that isn’t allowed,” Constantine said, clicking his tongue. “It’s like… What’s the point of being able to perform miracles if you can’t show it off? Stupid…”

“I wouldn’t go around calling Satan stupid in his own domain,” Aziraphale warned.

“If King Constantine wants your feedback, he’ll ask for it, demon,” Gabriel snapped, earning a sharp glare from Aziraphale hidden behind Crowley’s sunglasses.

“You say demon like it’s an insult, Gabriel. Did you forget that you _are_ one?”

“And did you forget that he’s the Duke in my circle of Hell and you’re nothing, father? Be quiet,” Constantine said dismissively while looking down at some scattered papers on the table. 

Aziraphale gaped at him, only faintly aware of Wrath cackling at him. Did Connie really have so little respect for his father that he would let Gabriel speak to him that way? And for Connie to so passively tell his father, the one who birthed him, that he was _nothing?_

“Alright then,” Aziraphale said, licking his lips—startled to realize that the tongue in his mouth had started to fork. It did that from time to time when he didn’t focus on it or when he got nervous. “So what will I be doing?”

“You’ll be helping recruit. I’ll need you to help bring me followers—preach my words. All that. Do what you have to do to get people in the door and keep them there. I also think… Wrath, throw this out. I don’t like this gospel anymore.” He handed three sheets of paper to Wrath who carried them two steps to a rubbish bin and dropped them inside. “Father, I also think I could use your help with the daycare I’m planning. This church is going to focus on families—people who are in over their heads. People with lots of kids. I want a place to put the kids while I’m doing my services. You like kids, right, father?”

“Yes!” Aziraphale said, forgetting a moment that this was Constantine and no matter how good his church sounded, it was still a cult—and still a tool he used to line his own pockets.

“Good! Excellent. You’ll help watch the kids. Do whatever you need to keep them happy—keep ‘em in line.”

Finally, Gabriel got the projector working and showed the schematic for the new building. Connie went on and on about what he had planned for which wing, what evil sigil he’d snuck into architecture. Aziraphale was torn between being proud and being horrified. 

If only he put this energy into doing good—into preaching the true word instead of his own twisted scripture. It was such a shame the monster he’d become. He would speak with such conviction and charisma, and then Aziraphale would be recalled to the night he’d learned his son had murdered eight-hundred of his followers—all because they’d let a reporter of some sort sneak into their midst. The same Connie who was talking about plans for a daycare where kids could play with all kinds of gadgets and toys, had poisoned so many innocent people without a single thought. The same Connie who was excitedly telling Crowley about his plans to let him ‘do what he does best’ with children—knowing how much he loved children—was the one who had just told his father he was _nothing._

They stayed Below until the church was complete, no one besides Beelzebub and possibly Dagon (though that might just be Aziraphale’s paranoia) aware if the switch. Much like the first time he’d visited Hell, Aziraphale was surprised by the sheer lack of Hellfire and brimstone. It was crowded and dreary and smelly, but it wasn’t exactly that dangerous for an angel.

That being said, he was so, so pleased when they finally went back above ground and arrived in Old Istanbul. Right away, Aziraphale was convinced his son had chosen the place simply because of all the stray cats. 

They traveled in droves—laid about everywhere—and did as they pleased without a care in the world. Connie had always loved cats…

Starting the church wasn’t as difficult as Aziraphale had thought it might be. Constantine had procured funding from Hell to buy food rations enough to feed a small village—and that was exactly what they set out to do, night after night.

Are you hungry, my brother? Are your children quite well, my sister? Do you need shelter? Do you need blankets? Please, come to our church!

Any government officials who tried to protest the building or the aid were sent off with a quick bribe. 

It was sick and twisted, yet somehow divine and good. Constantine was doing _right_ by these humans. He was clothing them, feeding them. He was doing all as he should. 

Until, after a month, he wasn’t. 

In the church, he was Gilroy Davis Davidson—and you could call him a prophet of God. He was in possession of divine wisdom. His word was law.

And according to the Gospel of Gilroy Davis Davidson, Rapture was quick approaching. Good souls would be spared, and the damned would be left to wander the earth—where demons would rise up and conquer them, enslave them.

Aziraphale could feel the dread pouring off the mortals. They forsook their customs, their beliefs, their human rights, to fall at Constantine’s feet to plead for salvation. Salvation only _he_ could offer. 

Aziraphale couldn’t do it.

As an angel, he couldn’t do it. He would Fall. If he encouraged these humans to follow Constantine, there was no doubt in his mind that he would Fall. Just listening to Connie’s sermons left him feeling a cold jab of hatred shoot through his angelic soul. He could smell fire and brimstone—and not just around Wrath and Gabriel in the fleeting times they came above ground. (They were absolutely wretched when it came to interpersonal relations.) It was a warning from Her that he was toeing the line between being a spouse and protecting Crowley, and being a very bad angel worthy of eternal damnation.

So, when Constantine asked him to give a speech before the congregation—telling of the miracle that was Gilroy Davis Davidson—Aziraphale had no choice but to tell him no.

“I’d rather just tend to the little ones. Sacha has been having a rough time with his brother and—”

“I don’t care about the kids, dad. Do what I ask. You obey _me._ You _work_ for _me._ You will prepare a speech and you will give it.”

“I’m not much for speeches. I’m more of an operate in the shadows sort of demon.”

“Well, you _were_ when you worked for that stupid little fly Beelzebub. But now you work for me. And if you insist on disobeying, you will be punished. Do _not_ make me tell you that again.”

The whole while, Constantine was typing up something on his computer that Aziraphale couldn’t see. He didn’t sound angry. He didn’t sound particularly like he was ready to snap.

If Aziraphale had known his son at all, though, he would’ve realized just how dangerous Constantine’s level demeanor could be. He would’ve…come up with _something._ At the moment, his only thoughts had been, ‘if I do this, I will Fall.’ His swap may have fooled his son and the demons of Hell, but he couldn’t fool God. 

She knew what he was, no matter whose skin he wore. And right at that moment, Aziraphale could practically hear Her as though She stood beside him in the church’s back room. 

“If it dresses like a demon and looks like a demon and _spews_ the sinful lies of a demon—then it must be…a demon, Aziraphale.”

“Constantine… As your father, really, I beg you to listen. And I do hate to beg, it’s so demeaning… But, I think I’m just better suited to be with the children—”

“I just told you not to make me ask again! You stupid, worthless serpent!” Constantine slammed his fists down on the desk on either side of his laptop. “I gave you an order! I am not that lazy, ignorant Beelzebub who’s going to let you get away with every last thing! I’m not screwing your daughter! I don’t give a shit about you! I am your boss! I am your God! You answer to me! Me! _Me!”_

Aziraphale felt his stomach plummet further even than the pits of Hell. Constantine’s face remained as placid as ever, but his voice shook with the force of his rage—his yellow eyes practically glowing. 

“I… I’m sorry, Connie,” Aziraphale stammered, fearing now for Crowley’s corporeal body. Was Constantine about to turn into his primal form, that awful panther that thirsted for blood, and rip him apart? 

“I have told you so many times, you idiot! I am _Gilroy Davis Davidson!_ You are so disrespectful it makes me sick! We end this now! I’m finishing this now!”

“Connie, I’m sorry! Please—Please, I’m sorry,” Aziraphale babbled, backing toward the office door. He thought to perform a miracle, to snap his fingers and banish Constantine to some other realm… But this was his son, his child… The child Crowley birthed alone, the child _Crowley_ loved so dearly. He couldn’t hurt him.

Aziraphale tried to summon a bit of his heavenly grace and, with a cold bolt of terror, realized the former river of grace that used to flow through him was now a muted, dreary trickle. 

It wasn’t enough. 

Suddenly, somehow, Aziraphale found himself on his knees in Hell with Constantine standing over him. 

“You did this,” Connie was growling. His hand was suddenly fisted in Crowley’s red hair, yanking his head back so Aziraphale had no choice but to look into his cold, merciless eyes. “Know this, father—everything that’s about to happen, happened because of _you._ Because _you_ wouldn’t listen to me! Because you are so stupid and so _proud_ you think you’re above doing my bidding.” He called for Gabriel and Wrath, and suddenly they were there too.

Aziraphale took in a shaking breath, feeling the tongue in his mouth start to fork—feeling his skin coat with ice and realizing it was scales taking over his flesh. This felt like a nightmare but he couldn’t for the life of him remember a time in which he might’ve had a spare moment to sleep.

“Don’t let him transform!” Constantine shouted. “And give me his wings.” His voice had turned so brutal and Aziraphale realized there was nothing he could say—nothing he could do, that was going to change Constantine’s mind. 

His child was a monster. 

A demon far worse than any Hell had ever produced.

“Connie, please!” Aziraphale called, looking back and forth between his son and the demons who closed in on him.

Gabriel suddenly had him by one shoulder while Wrath took the other, keeping him on his knees before—all at once—it felt as if Gabriel had punched a hole through his back and began ripping his wings out one at time despite Aziraphale’s best attempts to keep them in the spiritual realm. 

“You don’t need to do this—please! I-I’ll do whatever you ask! Please, Constantine! Gilroy—whatever you want to be called, whatever you want! Please!” He struggled to get to his feet, but now Gabriel and Wrath each had a hold of one of his wings—threatening to break them if he moved too hard.

Crowley would never forgive him. Crowley was never _going to forgive him_ for this. He cherished his wings. Constantine knew that…

Constantine… This monster…

“You chose to disobey me. I told you you would be punished, father. Now stop trying to worm your way out of the consequences. We all get what we deserve.”

“Connie, _please!”_

“Shut your mouth, demon!” Gabriel snapped, kicking Aziraphale so hard in the ribs he felt them crack. His wing, at the same time, was yanked backwards—dislocating the joint at its bow. His left wing…the wing made of feathers Aziraphale had given him.

Constantine may hate his serpent father, but he loved his “Angel Mother.” He adored Aziraphale. Maybe that could stop him.

“Constantine, please, your father gave me those feathers—you know that. Connie, please! Please, not my wings. Anything else—I beg you! Be merciful…”

“Demons aren’t merciful. You spend too much time with that wretched angel,” Wrath barked, twisting the fist he had around Aziraphale’s right wing, trying to do what Gabriel had done but too unfamiliar with the wing’s anatomy to succeed. 

“He’s right, father. And you get to explain to my dear Angel Mother just how you lost them. How you disobeyed me until I had _no choice_ but to put you back in your place. And let me tell you this, _Crowley,_ mother is _never_ going to forgive you.”

There was a dark hatred burning in his eyes. His words ate through Aziraphale’s heart like poison—burning him until tears welled in his eyes. Instantly, the tears of blood stung his eyes. It felt like acid had been poured into them, gouging them out. 

Crowley had cried every day, every single day, for months while carrying Constantine. He felt this pain _every day,_ and Aziraphale had left him to it…

He’d let Crowley down so many times. He couldn’t let this happen.

He couldn’t let Constantine break his wings when he lacked the heavenly grace to heal them. Crowley would be devastated. He would be lost… It could _ruin_ him.

When Aziraphale had blinked away the acidic tears, he was met with a monstrous demon he’d not met before—a creature that looked like a corpse left in the bottom of a lake. He had in his rotting hand a pair of hedge-trimming shears like the ones Crowley used when he tended the growth around the cottage. The demon handed the tool to Constantine who wasted no time flourishing them in Aziraphale’s face.

“This is what happens when you disobey me, Crowley,” he said.

“I am your father,” Aziraphale spat—hatred, true hatred, rising in his chest. Crowley had _suffered_ to bring this wretched creature into existence. Constantine was not going to stand before him and renounce him as if he were nothing.

“You are nothing to me,” Constantine snarled. “And now, everyone will see what you are. Mother will see you for the worthless little snake you are, Crowley. Without your wings, you won’t be able to convince him you’re some kind of dark angel. You’re a demon. You’re a _snake._ And snakes _don’t have wings.”_

“If you do this, Constantine, I will never forgive you,” Aziraphale snapped through gritted teeth. Venom was leaking out of his mouth and it _burned._ It burned worse than the tears in his eyes.

The demon who handed over the shears seemed to notice it, but instead of speaking up, it just put its finger to its lip as if puzzled.

“Hold him tight. He’s not going to like this,” Constantine said, looking to Gabriel before circling around to stand behind Aziraphale. He felt his son’s hand grab the back of his neck, then felt the blades of the shears close around the base of his left wing—Crowley’s left wing.

No.

_No._

This could not happen. 

This _would_ not happen.

Aziraphale felt the hatred in him spike even further as the crushing force of the shears clamped down on his bones. His lips curled into a pained and angry snarl, the demonic venom pooling in his mouth starting to burn just as hot as his rage. 

He screamed out a noise so unlike that which any demon could make, a piercing sound that cut through the laughter and chortling of the small demonic audience that had come around to see the spectacle. The blades clamped harder and Aziraphale felt a hatred so strong it was as if a bomb had gone off.

And perhaps one had.

The burning in his mouth disappeared, the audience disappeared—for a moment, _Hell_ disappeared. He could see a glowing blue radiance burst through the filthy chamber like an atom bomb. The demons it touched collapsed, screaming and covering their eyes—though Aziraphale couldn’t hear them.

He couldn’t hear anything—but he felt it. 

He felt the cries of the damned, just as he felt the suffering of all humanity on Earth—just as he felt the presence and love of God, _his_ God. The only _true_ God.

Aziraphale could see everything—he could see every soul in the room from every angle in existence—including the white, holy flames of the wings at his sides. Bigger and brighter than any archangel—and he didn’t need three pairs to show his glory. _Her_ divine glory.

He had become his true form.

Around him, demons were scattering blindly—their skin burning with the pain of their sins. 

And, behind him—before him, it was all the same now—knelt Constantine.

“M-Mother,” he gasped, tears in his eyes. “Wh-Why didn’t you tell me, mother? I never would’ve hurt you—”

_SILENCE!_ Aziraphale commanded in a voice that was not a voice. _YOU BETRAYED ME!_ Aziraphale, in that moment, felt as God must have. Here was a being he had given so much for, given life to, and it had betrayed him. He had in the past questioned, privately, and cursed just as privately, the Almighty for what she had done to Crowley—casting him out of Heaven for asking questions when he didn’t mean any harm. But now, looking at Constantine has he did, he felt he understood. Crowley had been caught in the crossfire like the demons who'd come to witness this assault.

He may have made Constantine, but he didn’t love him. Not now. He couldn’t. Constantine wasn’t _worthy._

“Please, forgive me, mother! I meant you no harm! If you’d only told me—”

_YOUR FATHER DOES NOT DESERVE THIS! HE SUFFERED TO BRING YOU TO LIFE! HE BLED AND HE WEPT AND FELL TO PIECES TO BRING YOU INTO THIS WORLD! AND THIS IS HOW YOU REPAY HIM? YOU BRING SHAME TO ME! YOU ARE UNWORTHY OF HIS LOVE! OF MY LOVE! I HAVE NO LOVE LEFT FOR YOU. FROM THIS DAY FORTH, I VOW THAT IF YOU SET FOOT ON MY EARTH AND IF YOU SET FOOT NEAR MY FAMILY, I WILL SMITE YOU WITH THE WRATH OF OUR ONE TRUE GOD! CONSTANTINE, I DAMN YOU!_

Then, as if called by a higher power, Aziraphale felt himself being lifted—dragged through the rock and earth—until he stood outside his cottage in the pitch darkness of night. He was still seething, still shaking with rage on his celestial level. It had been over six thousand years since he’d last bared his true form. 

He stared at his cottage—and at the sky and the grass and the water and the hills all at once—and slowly tried to quell his rage. All he could think, all he could feel, was his anger toward Constantine. He thought of Crowley, alone in that bathtub giving birth to a monster.

He gave birth alone and in fear and in pain.

Was that what did it? Was that what made Constantine’s soul turn to evil?

Was it his fault?

Did he do this?

The rage began to sink into despair, self-loathing teaming up against his hatred for his son. He felt for a moment that he was about to Fall—could smell brimstone again. He’d let hatred consume him and now he was going to Fall!

From his many eyes, Aziraphale wept.

He deserved it. For all he’d done—to Crowley, to everyone—he deserved to Fall.

_Aziraphale,_ a voice ripped through his soul, demanding and powerful. 

_MY LORD,_ he wept, not pleading so much as apologizing, praying She might understand that he never meant for this to happen. He only meant to love—to love wholly and protect his husband. 

_I forgive you._

_OH, MY LORD. MY LORD,_ he called to the Heavens. He received no reply, but felt Her love glow in the center of his being.

It comforted him, it consoled him. Her love quelled the rage. Her love guided him down and back into his mortal form—well, Crowley’s mortal form—and carried his legs forward and through the door of his home.


	21. Chapter 21

Crowley was sitting at the dining room table with his children and the interloper Matthias. He was almost certain he’d discovered Constantine’s new church in Old Istanbul, but wasn’t sure enough to uproot his family and go there. (He couldn’t leave them alone, he realized, not when Gabriel or Wrath could barge in at any moment and hurt them.) He would have to take everyone and probably Matthias as well. He seemed fascinated by the idea of Connie’s church and had hardly shut up about it the whole time Aziraphale had been gone.

His children were eating chilled soup while he sipped black coffee, then all at once he was smelling brimstone and fire instead of roasted coffee beans.

“Take your friend upstairs. Now,” he said, standing from the table so quickly it upset the coffee mug.

“What’s the matter?” Cassandra asked, setting her spoon down slowly. 

“Do as I said. Please—go upstairs. Take your friend. Don’t come down.”

“Dada, do you want me to stay?” Annie asked in quiet whisper.

“No. Get upstairs. Please—go. Go!” He hated how forceful Aziraphale’s voice was in his mouth.

“I hope everything’s alright,” Matthias was whispering to Amadeus as they all filed out of the room and up the stairs. Antigone paused near the middle of the steps and he had to gesture aggressively for her to keep going before she would disappear around the corner on the second floor. 

Crowley sniffed the air again, the stink remaining and raising the hairs on the back of his neck.

A demon. That was a demon… 

Growling low in his throat, Crowley ripped open the front door of the cottage and made to storm outside to confront whoever was trespassing. He expected Gabriel or Hastur or Wrath—knowing Beelzebub would’ve been inside the house and all over Antigone like the fly he was if it were him. 

Instead, he was staring at himself—a disgusting, twisted version of himself with too many eyes and mouths. 

“A-Angel?” He asked, faltering backwards a step as the demon came nearer.

“Crowley—My dear boy, I am so sorry. There’s something I _must_ tell you.”

“Wh-what’s happened to you?” Crowley asked, only slightly relieved when he heard Aziraphale’s typical speech pattern coming through in his own voice.

Instead of answering, Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley’s shoulders and squeezed him tightly—pressing a chaste kiss to Crowley’s cheek. 

“Switch back with me, Angel,” Crowley whispered, nuzzling Aziraphale’s—well, his own—neck. 

“Your wings—they’re fine, really, they are! Please don’t panic! But they’re…they’re injured. Dislocated. You can heal them. I just… My grace... I couldn’t.”

“Switch me back. If they’re hurting you, trade me back,” Crowley said, holding his hand out for Aziraphale to take. He was pleased, when they parted, to see himself back down to one mouth and two eyes—though there were strange burns around his lips as if his mouth had been overflowing with burning water that had left him badly scalded.

“Please, forgive me,” Aziraphale said, taking his hand. Slowly, Crowley felt himself slide back into his familiar skin. His mouth hurt, but he healed it with a thought. His wings on the other hand were absolutely aching. He pulled them from the spirit realm long enough to snap the joints back into place and heal the stinging cut to his left wing, then tucked them away before Matthias could peek out a window and see.

“There we are. No worse for wear. Now can you tell me what you’re doing here? I thought you were going to Old Istanbul.”

“I was—I did!” Aziraphale said, grabbing Crowley and pulling him back into a tight embrace. “Oh, Crowley… It was horrible.” He had tears in his eyes that left Crowley frightened. 

“Do you want to come inside, Angel? There’s water for tea. I could make you coffee.”

“Tea— _please!”_ Aziraphale said, sighing and going with Crowley into their cottage.

Crowley led him to his reading chair and kissed his cheek before going into the kitchen to boil the water for tea. When the cup of tea was finally in Aziraphale’s hand, the drink nearly splashed out onto the floor from how badly he was shaking.

“Is… Is Connie okay?” He became convinced by Aziraphale’s immediate sob that the boy was not at all alright. “What happened? Is he hurt?”

“I… Crowley, I’m so sorry, my love. If I had known… If—If I’d had any _idea_ what a monster he was, I would never have let you carry him. I would never have done that you, you poor creature.” Aziraphale sobbed this into his hands, his face covered and hidden from Crowley’s certain gaze, his tea forgotten on the table.

“What do you mean? Wouldn’t let _me_ carry him?—So it was my fault?” He asked, heart breaking in sad understanding. Of course it was. He was a demon—demons couldn’t carry life. That was why Wrath was so terrible and Gabriel’s daughter Delilah just as wicked as her hellish father.

“No! Crowley, my love, no! No, that’s not what I mean. I just mean…if I had known then what I know now, I… I would’ve killed that monster the day it was born. Oh, Crowley, I _hate_ him. From the bottom of my soul, I _hate_ him.”

“You don’t mean that,” Crowley said, the words hurting him as if they were directed at him. 

“Oh, my darling… The things he said to me—to you! My darling. Oh, my love… He’s the worst thing I ever did to you.”

“Angel, you don’t mean that,” Crowley said, kneeling before Aziraphale on the floor and taking his hands. He pulled them away from the angel’s face and kissed them before planting a gentle kiss on Aziraphale’s wet, trembling lips. 

“I was going to Fall… Working in that awful place. He wanted me to write a sermon and I told him I wouldn’t—I couldn’t. If I lied to all those people—”

“That’s why _I_ have to go. Don’t you see? Angel, I’m already damned. God can’t make me Fall twice. That’s _exactly_ why I didn’t want you to go.”

“He tried to cut your wings off. He was going to do it as punishment for not obeying. He’s a monster, Crowley. He knows what your wings mean to you—he knows that I gave my feathers for you and wanted to use it to tear us apart. He’s a wicked, wicked monster. I…”

“How did you get out?” Crowley asked, thinking of the extra eyes and mouths his form had had when Aziraphale appeared before him. Certainly he hadn’t… 

“Oh, Crowley…”

“Aziraphale, how did you stop him?”

“I… I didn’t mean to… I was so angry, Crowley. He was so cruel to you and you _don’t_ deserve it. You love that stupid, stupid ungrateful boy.”

“Aziraphale—”

“I couldn’t help it. I was so full of hatred and anger… I transformed. I-I became my true self and I… I disowned him. I don’t want him here, Crowley. I won’t have him in my house—near you. I can’t… If he’d do that to you, imagine what he’d do to Annie or to Cass and ‘Deus.”

“Angel—he’s our son!”

“He is _not_ our son! He is a monster!”

“He’s _my_ son,” Crowley said, his chest aching as he fought back tears. He knew Connie was evil… He knew he could be heartless and cruel, particularly toward himself, but still didn’t see that as grounds for Aziraphale to disown him. It would devastate Connie. He loved his Angel Mother. “Please… Aziraphale, please don’t hate him. He can’t help it. It’s my dark nature just…just coming through in his genetics—”

“You’re more angel than devil. Don’t make excuses for him. If you’d heard the things he’d said—the things he meant _for you…”_ Aziraphale collapsed into tears again, this time so loudly Annie appeared and could not be persuaded to go back upstairs. 

“Papa?” She asked, placing a hand on Crowley’s shoulder. 

“We’re… We’re back to…to ourselves,” Crowley said.

“Oh! Papa, are you ok? Why are you crying?” She asked, reaching over Crowley to hug her angel father. He held her in return, sniffling into her shoulder as he stroked her hair.

Once she had come downstairs, the other three were quick to follow—though Cassandra quite wisely told Matthias to make himself scarce and he excused himself with a tip of his fedora. 

Crowley moved quietly into his throne and sat there while his children comforted their father who wouldn’t tell them why he was sad. He was left to wonder what Connie could possibly have done—besides threaten to cut off his wings…besides actually try to cut off his wings as a punishment—that would’ve made Aziraphale forsake him so completely. He knew his angel and he knew his moods, but to have his husband tell him—and tell him honestly—that he wished he’d murdered their child at birth, that wasn’t like Aziraphale. That was more like his angel at the airbase all those years ago in Tadfield who tried to shoot Adam Young, the Antichrist, only to be thwarted by the little old lady whose body he resided in. 

They were all still holding onto their angel father when the knock came at the door. 

Crowley had smelled them from a mile away.

Beelzebub.

He was surprised the prince had knocked.

He stood to answer the door, motioning for Aziraphale to stay put as he did.

“Good to see you back in your own body,” Beelzebub said, blinking at him coldly. Behind him stood Dagon, holding what had to be Annie and Beelzebub’s egg in one of the slings Aziraphale had knitted far too long ago. “Let us in.”

“Right. Of course,” he said, stepping back and motioning the two inside. He was surprised to see Dagon, but for whatever reason the presence of the fish-scaled Lord of the Files made Annie’s face light up. 

“Dagon! Beelz! What are you doing here?” Annie asked, going to them and wrapping her arms first around her husband, and then around Dagon—careful of the egg.

“Don’t act like you don’t know.”

“I… I don’t know,” Annie said, scooping up her egg and carrying it with her to the couch. Aziraphale moved to sit in his reading chair and it irritated Crowley to no end to see his husband displaced in his own home by demons. 

Beelzebub and Dagon sat on either side of Annie—Dagon keeping a happy hand on the egg’s blackish-green shell. It was Crowley’s first time seeing it and he half expected whatever hatched from it to be some kind of lizard or monster.

Something like Constantine, maybe.

Amadeus and Cassandra moved to be nearer to their angel father, Cass choosing to kneel at his feet with a comforting hand on his knee.

“Your father’zzz been up to his old tricks,” Beelzebub said. “Sending in the angel when he doesn’t want to come to work,” Beelzebub said, quite sternly.

“I asked to go,” Aziraphale said, his voice still wavering slightly as he gripped Amadeus’ hand on his shoulder as if to keep himself grounded. “He didn’t have a say.”

“He must’ve had a say to trade you bodies. It’s not like you can possess him.”

“Did you get caught, Papa?” Annie asked, her face suddenly going very pale. 

“More than that,” Beelzebub said. “I didn’t care so much at the start. Whatever stunts he and Crowley choose to perform are Constantine's problem. _Until_ he decided to morph into an actual angel in the pit of Hell. Blinded seven demons and discorporated one. Killed another…and dethroned a king. I’m here to tell you your son’s to be executed.”

“Constantine?” Crowley asked, as if it needed any clarification. No one would be coming for Amadeus. He wondered if Hell would even dare to think of it.

“Is little Mozart a king of Hell? Did I mizzzz zomething?” Beelzebub asked.

“Don’t get angry, Beelz,” Annie attempted, only to be met with her husband’s stern glare.

“You keep quiet or Satan will be after you next,” he buzzed.

“I don’t understand… Papa, why? Why would you do this?”

“Constantine tried to cut off your father’s wings,” Aziraphale said, straightening himself in his chair. “I wouldn’t stand for it.” He looked to Crowley with a heartrending expression. “I couldn’t. I’m so sorry, Crowley. He can’t _do that_ to you. I couldn’t just… It would’ve been all my fault and—and there’d be no coming back from it.”

“And… And do we know who was discorporated and who...who died?” Cassandra asked, drawing attention to herself while rubbing Aziraphale’s shoulder while he collapsed into quiet tears. 

“Anyone we know?” Annie asked, looking cautiously to her husband.

“Wrath was discorporated...again. So you can _both_ get the satisfaction of knowing you’ve hurt my son,” Beelzebub practically growled. “As for the demon who was annihilated, I doubt anyone here is going to miss the fallen archangel. It was ten times worse than anything Holy Water could do.”

“Gabriel is...is dead?” Crowley said, feeling a bizarre mix of relief and horror. If it had been anyone else, anyone more established or higher up—someone like Hastur or Dagon or even Beelzebub—there would be an army of demons at their door rallying for a chance to lob off the angel’s head.

“Yes. And seven other demons have been irrevocably blinded. Now I don’t know what to do with them.”

“I… I imagine Gabriel was killed because of how close he was when I…” Aziraphale didn’t need to finish. “Wrath was just as close. Why do you suppose he didn’t—not that I wish any ill on him. He was just doing his job after all, but… He survived?”

“That’s the thing,” Beelzebub said, grasping Annie’s hand and squeezing it gently. “We learned this with Constantine just before I left.” The impact of that statement left Crowley choking for air he didn’t need—the implication that someone, very recently, had tried to murder his _son_ rang loudly in his ears. “These hybrids, these creatures… I don’t think they _can_ be killed. I thought, after he’d been discorporated the first time, Wrath was a demon through and through. We assigned his new body which had a few more demonic attributes, but that blast should have left him in the same puddle of muck as the archangel. They’re neither demons nor angels, nor can they ever be. They’re not humans… They’re not like us. I have to wonder if _She_ made them at all.” Beelzebub spat the mention of the Almighty out as if it left a foul taste in his mouth.

“Well… I’m positive She _did,”_ Aziraphale said. “Though I am very relieved to hear that Wrath made it out. I… My anger, Beelzebub, was directed at Constantine. I do so despise Gabriel and all that he stands for, and the demons of Hell are my enemies—well, apart from yourself and any who Annie see as a friend, of course—but it was never my intention to harm anyone. I just couldn’t allow Constantine to—”

“Is my son… Does he have a body?” Crowley interjected. 

“By this point, most likely. Conzzzidering you are his fatherzz, I will zzpare the gruezome details. He’zzz been discorporated at least twice zzince you left Hell, angel. Satan himself is approving the formzzz. Cutting cornerzzz, as one would given the circumstancezzz.”

Crowley noted the way Beelzebub squeezed Annie’s hand as he spoke, implying that he himself did not take as much pleasure in hearing of the torture as he implied. Or perhaps he was just afraid the news would hurt Annie.

“You’re saying that...that right now, as we’re talking, my son—”

“Is being killed for the umpteenth time by his Lord of Darkness? Yezzzz. And don’t be an idiot and try going in after him. Satan will have you next. He seemzz to think you’re the angel. That you’ve been a sleeper agent for Heaven all this time. No one else seems smart enough to figure it out.”

“Is there anything we can do?” Annie asked, her voice a soft whisper. 

“Wait for Satan to get bored...and go from there,” Dagon answered when Beelzebub failed to speak more. “He’ll tire...eventually. He always does. Right, Beelzebub?” 

“Typically. Consider it his penance, if you must. He cannot die. He slaughtered all those people without a second thought.”

“I don’t want to think about my son being tortured,” Crowley snapped. “Whether he deserves it or not.” This he said while looking to Aziraphale. It was hard not to be angry with him. 

He understood why Aziraphale couldn’t do what Connie asked of him—he understood that Aziraphale couldn’t allow himself to Fall—but he didn’t need to explode in divine rage over Crowley’s wings. He would be devastated to get his body back without them...but he’d rather know his son was safe. How could Aziraphale have turned on their son just for his sake? For his _physical_ sake, no less?

“I’m so sorry, my dear,” Aziraphale said, his voice far too gentle. Crowley couldn’t help but scoff at it. He _couldn’t_ be angry with him, but it was so hard not to. Aziraphale was the one who insisted they swap places. Aziraphale was the one who wanted to go. If he’d left things alone, if he’d let Crowley go, none of this would have had to happen. Crowley would’ve given his stupid speech, lured the people to get more deeply invested in the cult, and that would be that. He was _already_ damned. No one would’ve been vying to chop off his wings because he would’ve _obeyed._

Crowley had the terrible sense that after all they’d been through together, there would be no coming back from this. 

( ) ( ) ( )

Amadeus could hardly stand the aura which had settled over their typically peaceful home. There were weeks when his serpent father would collapse in depression—weeks he spent in bed or curled up as a snake underneath the couch—but ‘Deus had never quiet experienced anything like this. After Beelzebub had left with his shameless sister, their apparent third partner, and the egg, his fathers had descended into an argument that lasted for two days. 

It began like a proper discussion, his serpent father trying to explain that he would have rather lost his wings that his son. His angel father then argued that it wasn’t about the wings, it was about the things Constantine had apparently said during that moment. Serpent father didn’t care if Constantine hated him. Angel father cared a lot. 

They had been shouting at each other since that point had been made—yelling until they were hoarse, healing their voices, and shouting more. 

Amadeus was naturally opposed to arguments and shamefully terrified of loud voices. Their cottage was typically so peaceful… He hated that every crevice had been filled with rage and pain. When he asked Cass about what was happening, what they _needed_ to make them stop, and she had dismissed him.

“They need to talk to each other,” she said.

“Then how do we get them to stop fighting? They’re just _yelling._ I don’t even think they know what they’re saying to each other.”

“They _are_ talking,” she insisted. “They need to do this. I don’t think they’ve ever fought before.”

“Then they don’t know when to call it quits! Cass, this isn’t _okay!_ This is bad, this is very _bad.”_

“Dada doesn’t ever say when he’s upset at Papa, and Papa… I don’t think Papa has ever really told Dada what he thinks of Constantine.”

“What’s to think? He’s our _brother._ He’s troubled, yes, but he’s still our brother.”

“Our brother hates Dada. He doesn’t have any love for him at all. He doesn’t love Papa either, but he pretends to. It hurts Dada. It kills him, and he thinks it’s his fault.”

“How could it be his fault?” ‘Deus asked, covering his ears as his serpent father shouted in a voice so inhumanly shrill that the cottage creaked under the force of it.

_“You have your kids! I lost both of mine!”_

“They’re _all_ ours, you blind, foolish serpent!”

“Dada is very sensitive about being a demon. Maybe more so than he thinks,” Cass said, her voice as gentle as always, as if the fighting didn’t impact her.

_“How could you have let this happen!?”_

“He wouldn’t even call you his _father!_ He said you were _nothing_ to him! I love you! I love you so much and it _hurt_ to hear him say that to you! I couldn’t let him… I couldn’t let him do this to you. He said you were _worthless._ You’re the father of my children… I couldn’t let him say that!”

Instead of answering, their serpent father just screamed. 

“You really think they _need_ to do this?” Amadeus asked, wanting to wrap himself up in his blankets and disappear. “Can’t they just...write it in notes? At least _think_ about what they’re saying to each other?”

“No… I think what Dada needs is to just...talk. Say things. I don’t think he and Papa talked at all when he was carrying Connie. And if they did, not much.”

“So they _need_ to fight now?”

“Dada needs to talk and Papa has to see things his way.”

“He does! He didn’t want to banish Connie to an eternity in Hell, but he brought it on himself. Dad needs to see that,” Amadeus said. 

“Dad feels sorry for Connie.”

Amadeus heaved a loud sigh, covering his head in as many pillows and blankets as he could gather in his room—which wasn’t very much. His sister’s placid voice wasn’t helping to balance out the screams downstairs.

“I can tell them to stop, if you’d like,” Cass said, a little louder in order to pierce through his layers of stuffing.

“Yes, please!” Amadeus shouted.

Downstairs, he could hear his angel father sobbing—yelling and sobbing at the same time. 

Thankfully, he couldn’t hear what he was saying.

“I’ll go, ‘Deus. Dada will listen to me.”

And so she did, slip down the stairs and then sit at the bottom step waiting for a chance to sneak a word in. Her fathers had moved into the kitchen where they were shouting at each other while her angel father made tea. Occasionally he would slam down whatever was in his hand—the tea tin, the kettle, the cup he wanted to use. 

“He renounced you!”

“I don’t care, angel! I don’t give a fuck what he does to me! Why don’t you see that!?”

“I don’t care that you don’t care! _I_ care! You’re _my_ husband! You’re _his_ father! You’re the father of _my_ children! I care! _I care!_ I _care_ about you!”

“Maybe if you’d _cared more_ when I was pregnant, he wouldn’t have turned out this way!”

“I said I was sorry! There’s nothing more I can do! You were _so_ distraught and I couldn’t _be_ with you twenty-four seven! I couldn’t stand to be around you!”

“See! You _admit it!_ So you should’ve _let him_ butcher me and call it done! You don’t love me anyway! You never have!”

“How _dare_ you!? Everything I’ve done is for you! I let you down. I know that—I know that, Crowley. I know I can never make it up to you. I can’t even express how horrified I was to come home to find you in that state, how _ashamed._ Please, _please_ stop thinking it was because I didn’t _love_ you. I couldn’t… I couldn’t help you. I couldn’t help you—I couldn’t even tend to your feathers and I _knew_ you wanted me to. If I touched them, they all fell out. I had to stay there and watch you suffer and I couldn’t… I couldn’t let Connie ‘butcher’ you.”

Her serpent father started spluttering out sounds—an indicator that he was about to start yelling again, about anything, because he didn’t want to give up the fight. Cass pulled herself up from her spot on the steps and went into the kitchen.

“Papa, I would love some tea when it’s ready,” she said. 

Instantly, her Dada stopped stammering for angry words.

“Of course, dear,” her angel father answered, his words clipped. 

“Amadeus—”

“Wants us to stop talking. I’m well aware,” her angel father said, focusing his energy on the tea. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and go check on him, Crowley?” 

Her serpent father hesitated a long time, then nodded and dismissed himself from the kitchen with the smallest of caresses to Cass’ shoulder as he left. 

“Are you alright, Papa?” Cass asked, hugging her father briefly—knowing he didn’t really want touched but extending the gesture regardless. 

“Of course, my dear. I do believe I should apologize. We got out of hand.”

“Dada is very—”

“It’s not for you to worry about. I’m sorry.”

Cass frowned and waited quietly, patiently for her tea while, upstairs, her serpent father was doing nothing more than lurking around Amadeus’ room—too afraid to go in.

Amadeus, meanwhile, was slowly unwinding from his blankets. He could hear someone outside his room, but wasn’t sure who until he reached out with his slightly more than human senses. He felt the faintly ominous aura that was his serpent father and tensed again. He would’ve preferred his angel father—and then was overwrought with guilt for thinking so. 

After a few minutes, there came a gentle—almost silent—knock at the door. 

“Amadeus?” His serpent father asked.

‘Deus slithered out from his blankets and said it was okay to come in, keeping his eyes downcast as his Dada came in, looking sheepish. 

“Are you… Is everything alright?” He asked, still clutching the doorknob as if for dear life.

“I… Yeah. Fine.”

His father seemed to be looking at the floor—it was hard to tell with his sunglasses covering his face—and nervously chewed at his lip.

“Listen, er… I’m sorry about...all that. I guess we got carried away— _I_ got carried away. I’m sorry.”

“Papa got as upset as you. It’s not all your fault,” Amadeus said, noting the way his serpent father’s shoulders visibly relaxed upon hearing it—hearing he wasn’t blamed. What did he have to feel so guilty about? Amadeus couldn’t even begin to imagine. 

“Yes, but I should have...controlled my temper a little better. You and Cass don’t need dragged into our fights. I’m sorry you had to overhear it.”

They both fidgeted awkwardly a while, not sure what to say to each other, until Amadeus offered for his father to sit—either on his bed or at his desk. His serpent father started at he desk, fidgeted a long while, then moved onto the bed. 

“Your Papa’s making tea,” his Dada said. 

“I don’t really want any,” ‘Dues said. 

“Me either…” 

Again, they fell into silence. His serpent father was staring off at the floor and Amadeus reached out with his senses again to feel his aura—feel his sadness, his shame. He realized then, his fathers hadn’t been fighting from a place of anger, but rather pain. His father was so overwrought with sorrow and ‘Deus felt they had never been quite close enough for him to be equipped to fix it. Surely, Cass was much better suited. 

Annie would be better suited… 

Pretty much anyone would be better suited than him. He wasn’t even that certain his father liked him. He loved him of course, but Amadeus wasn’t foolish enough to see himself as the favorite. That was Connie—and Connie was, for all intents and purposes, dead. ‘Deus wasn’t particularly fond of his monster of a brother, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate his father’s suffering. 

“Are you and Papa going to be...okay?” ‘Deus asked, looking at his blankets instead of his father.

“I-I think so. You don’t need to worry about that. Your father and I have been together, you know, six thousand years. I don’t think… I-I don’t think he’s going to just...pack up and leave us.” His voice shook and Amadeus could tell his father didn’t believe it himself. How could he still be so certain that he was unloved by his family? 

“For what it’s worth, Dad,” Amadeus said, feeling small the moment his father looked up at him. “I think you’re great. I kind of...knew it was you, right away, as soon as Papa left in your place. I was happy, Dad, to get to spend some time just with you. It’s always been just me and Cass, Annie, and Papa. I liked having just the four of _us,_ you know? We never get to spend a lot of time together.”

“We could fix that,” his father said, far too quickly. “I could take you somewhere—anywhere. Just us, or you and your sister. Whatever you’d like.” 

“Italy?” Amadeus offered. 

“Italy is wonderful. I could show you so many things in the historic district.” They talked a while longer, making plans for a trip they’d probably never take. By the end of it, his serpent father was lounging on the bed more comfortably, talking about a time he snuck into the Vatican to spy on his angel father who apparently hated the place. 

The stunt cost him serious burns to the soles of his feet and his left palm from the consecrated land. A little while later, his Papa and Cass came upstairs carrying a tea tray. It was clear that tension remained between his fathers, but they still shared a brief kiss as his serpent father accepted his cup. The fight, for now, seemed over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the end starts next chapter, you guys! Sorry for the filler-ish-ness of this chap, but it felt wrong not to address the emotions in the room. See you soon! Thanks for reading!


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys! Can I just say you've all been so, so awesome?? I really never expected this fic to get much attention or that it would continue on so long with so many committed readers! I also want to say in my entire time writing fanfic (going on 12yrs), I've never included OCs as more than background figures or as throw away villains. I always believed no one could actually like reading about a character from my own mind. To have been told that you really like Annie and the others means so, so much to me! I've always wanted to write novels, but have always held the lack of confidence to finish creating anything in fear my original ideas and characters wouldn't hold anyone's interest but my own. You guys have really proven to me that that's not true and it means so much! You have no idea how much! 
> 
> As for the story--this chapter is very heavy but happy ending is imminent! Heaven and Hell just have to have their war first. Nothing, and I mean nothing, will ever keep our Ineffable Husbands apart!

Thomas yawned, stretching his arms overhead as he sat up on the park bench. He’d been asleep for God knew how many days, and no one had bothered him because, honestly, who wanted to move a corpse in this day and age?

What he awoke to, however, had him fearing he may have been asleep more than days—perhaps more like months. Or years. 

The streets were full of noise, panicked screams and the crunching sounds of frantic footsteps. People were running past him carrying clothes, carrying kids, carrying pets and food and injured adults. The building he’d slept across from was now a smoldering smokestack. 

He watched a young couple begin running from the shelter of one building, heading toward another across the way, only for one of them to vanish into thin air before they could reach the structure. 

Thomas shook his head in disbelief, eyes going impossibly wide. The man who had been running as well fell to his knees and screamed out a cry of agony. He cursed the sky, shook his fists at it, and then collapsed into sobs. 

“What in the Hell?” He asked, blinking harder—as if it would awaken him from this strange nightmare.

“No—This is Heaven’s doing,” came a female voice, suddenly beside him on the bench. A woman was there now, a woman he’d seen several times throughout his long existence. She called herself Delia… Dahlia? Delores? Delilah?

Right—Delilah. It had been at least three naps and twenty sleeps, and fifty years since he’d seen her last. 

“Heaven?” He echoed, watching more people rush past.

“How in the world you can sleep through a war is beyond me. We had a bombing just last night. Cigarette?” 

“Yes, please,” Thomas said, accepting the cigarette which Delilah lit for him. “What brings you here?”

“The war,” she said, quite plainly. “And you.”

“Me? Time for another nap?”

“Satan, no. You’re homeless again. I’m not interested in sharing a _bench.”_ She was so much like a human, thinking that material things were all that mattered. He didn’t have a home so he didn’t have to work. Not having to work meant more time for sleeping. And, to be quite frank, living on the street made it a lot easier to find the kind, generous people. (Sure, there were the crazies and drugged out ones too, but mostly Thomas just felt pity for them and let them alone.) After his parents and family had all died, Thomas found the streets to be a far more comfortable place. It changed constantly and no one out here noticed that he never grew old or ill or died if he slept too long.

“So… What’s happening?” He asked, gesturing to the people. Several more disappeared before his eyes, leaving their loved ones screaming in horror. He would rather focus on this than his periodic sleeping arrangement with his fellow immortal. Pride, wasn’t it? Or was it Lust? Someone had explained it to him once, but he’d just gone back to sleep shortly after and forgot. He did that when things got weird, slept until they felt better. He didn’t freeze to death, couldn’t starve… So long as he kept all his blood, he seemed perfectly fine. It was easy to sleep through any discomfort and try again another day.

“The Rapture. It’s been going on for days. Where have you been? Or let me guess—asleep.”

“Tired,” Thomas said, taking a drag from the cigarette. “What’s the Capture?”

“Rapture, you dunce. Though, I guess calling it The Capture describes it pretty well. Heaven is collecting the souls of the worthy, and leaving the wicked behind for us.”

“Us?” 

“You and me and the rest of Hell.”

“Hell? No—I’m not really associated. Non-Affiliated. Pacifist. Unaligned. I didn’t even vote in the last sixteen elections.”

“Earth politics mean nothing to us. You’re a Sin. You’re fighting in the war. Satan won’t have it any other way.”

“I don’t work for Satan,” Thomas said, shaking his head and turning away from the sight before him—the smoldering building and panicked people. He didn’t like it. He wanted to stub out the cigarette and go back to sleep.

“If you worked for God, you’d be beamed up by now. Clearly you’re one of us. And it’s time you acted like it instead of just lounging around napping your whole existence away.”

“I like to sleep. What’s wrong with that?” 

Somewhere in the distance, a building exploded—shaking the earth so forcefully, filling his line of vision with a blast of white light. A huge puff of cinders and debris washed over them which Thomas and Delilah simply shook off. 

“Why are they bombing?”

“Because they’re afraid. Humans always turn to destruction out of fear.”

“And why’s God snatching up half the humans?”

“Because they’re forgiven. The rest are damned—the rest belong to us.”

Thomas let out a heavy sigh and stubbed out his cigarette.

“I don’t work for Hell,” he said. “I just like to nap. I’m not going to torture the humans.” No sooner had Thomas finished speaking did the world around him disappear in a bright, white burst. He felt like he was sleeping, only it was bright instead of the usual, comforting darkness. It was the same, familiar weightlessness—absence of external forces keeping him tied to his body.

It was truly very, very nice. 

( ) ( ) ( )

Beelzebub took off their watch, frowning as they looked at the large number reflected on the face. So many years, so many lifetimes spent with Annie—both above and below. 

Their egg had hatched the previous night, giving them a beautiful little boy they’d agreed to call Dionysus—Dion, for short. Annie liked it better than Bacchus and Beelzebub was determined to name their second son after the false deity of overindulgence, fertility, and festivity. Those were all things Beelzebub could get behind.

“He has your eyes, Bzz-Bzz,” Annie said from her place curled up on their large bed. 

“That’s nice, dear,” Beelzebub said, unable to find the attention Annie deserved to give her. A war was raging on Above, arrangements were being finalized Below… Somehow, in their heart of hearts, Beelzebub knew that when all was said and done, this was to be their last days together. 

“Come lay down. You’ve been on your poor feet all day.”

“In a moment, dear.”

“No—Now. And bring some wine.”

“Fine, fine.” Beelzebub let out a heavy sigh and did as their wife asked, pouring the wine into their matching chalices. They curled up beside Antigone on the bed, smiling down at her tiny son—so new to the universe. So much proof that God was nothing but a heartless, cruel monster.

Who brought a baby into the world knowing they were about to destroy it? If Hell won, maybe they could all live together, but Annie would be grief stricken over the loss of her angel father and her two youngest siblings. And if Heaven won… That would just be the end of them. Forever. 

“I know you’re afraid,” Annie whispered, looking at their baby as she spoke. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“Are you not?”

“I’ve never feared anything more than something happening to my darling little hatchling,” Annie said, stroking their baby’s cheek with her finger. He smiled at her, an innocent little gurgle of joy coming from his toothless mouth. Annie took a sip of wine and Beelzebub copied suit before dipping their finger into their glass and then smearing some of the wine on their baby’s lips. 

He made a contemplative noise—or as much of one as an infant could manage—and Annie grunted in annoyance, smacking Beelzebub on the shoulder.

“Beelz! He’s a baby!”

“He deserves to try wine. He’s named for the god of it. It’s not like it’ll make him drunk.”

“There’s going to be plenty of time for that when he’s older!”

Beelzebub didn’t dare voice what was in the back of both their minds. That there wouldn’t be an ‘older.’ The world was going to end, at least as far as the world they knew. And if Hell lost… 

Beelzebub had existed for nearly six and half million years—the thought of suddenly not existing anymore was terrifying. Beelzebub had felt the love of God, and the loss of it. They had felt the hatred of the world, the pleasure of destruction and pain… They had felt the sting of betrayal, the pain of being hated by one they dared to try to love.

And they had felt forgiveness. 

Perhaps, they dared think, even divine forgiveness. 

Wrath had been punishment. Beelzebub understood that now.

But Dion… Annie—all of it. That was forgiveness. It was a gift.

Maybe it could extend beyond the baby, beyond Antigone, beyond everything they had. 

But that was a dangerous dream to have in the pit of Hell. 

“We should go Above… Show him to your fathers before it’s too late.”

Annie took a sip of her wine and nodded slowly.

“Yes… Is it bad if I said that I’m afraid to? I can’t even imagine what it looks like up there, from all the things I’ve heard.”

“It’s bad. It’s very bad.”

“Is the cottage even still there?”

“It is. Of course it is. Because they want it to be. That’s where their children live,” Beelzebub said. They had spied on the cottage a couple of times, noting the restlessness of the demon who lived there. Beelzebub never thought they’d have the thought ‘poor Crowley’ in their entire existence, but they did. 

He had so much more to lose—and had already lost so much.

Constantine had not been liberated from Hell’s torture chambers since the day his angel father had exploded in a fit of divine rage. Beelzebub was forced to prove allegiance to Hell and Satan over all others several times by carrying out tortures of their own. There wasn’t much left to be done to the boy, but Beelzebub tried to be creative. If they held back, Satan would know—and it would be Annie to take Constantine’s place. Annie didn’t deserve it. She was a creature of Lust… They didn’t want to know what Satan would have the demons do to her.

Beelzebub would do anything to keep Annie safe—to keep their baby safe. Beelzebub wanted to see him grown—wanted to see him big. He was a bald, squirmy thing right now with their watery gray eyes. They wanted to see if he grew red hair like his mother. Greedily, selfishly, Beelzebub just wanted to see what he turned into. How devious would he be? How wicked? How mean? How passionate and loving and boisterous? 

They didn’t want it taken away in a flash of light or the agonizing char of hellfire. 

How could God be so cruel?

( ) ( ) ( )

Matthias vanished into thin air forty minutes after Cassandra refused his marriage proposal. She understood why he wanted her, but there was no need there—not really. She’d cried when she refused him, and cried harder when God whisked him away into the heavens. Her angel father did his best to comfort her, assuring her it was for the best and yet expressing how ‘so, so sorry’ he was for her loss. 

Those who were Raptured were not seen again—and it was becoming increasingly clear, in Cass’ mind anyway, that neither she nor Amadeus were going to be. Not because they were made of sin, but rather because their souls were not open for judgment. They were made to be on the earth, and that was where they would stay. 

As for her fathers… 

Cassandra was heartbroken to think about it. 

“Is there anything I can do?” Her serpent father asked as she cried into her Papa’s chest.

“I’ll be fine,” she said, sniffling back more tears. 

It was a _good_ thing that Matthias was saved. It was a _good_ thing. She didn’t need to be sad—but it was still a loss, and she would still miss him. And she would miss her fathers when they were called to their respective sides.

“Are you sure? I-I could get you something—donuts, coffee, anything. Anything at all.” Where he thought he’d find such things with a World War to end all World Wars going on, she couldn’t fathom, but she knew he would if she asked him.

“I’m fine, Dada, thank you,” Cass said, letting go of her angel father in order to hug her Dada. He squeezed her so tightly she couldn’t move, as if he were trying to force his feelings of love into each and every one of her pores. “I love you,” she said, feeling the way he seemed to melt into her from the words. 

Love, it was all he ever really wanted or needed. Love without question, without judgment. Love he could feel confident would never be taken away. 

Cass held him as tight as she could, trying her best to infuse the same waves of love she felt coming from her father back into him. She squeezed her eyes shut so firmly in concentration that she started seeing white.

Then continued seeing white.

Her arms were empty. Her fathers were gone. Her brother was gone. 

All around her was a brilliant, bright nothing.

And a voice, a very warm voice, filling her being from head to toe. 

“You have done _exceptionally_ well. I’m very pleased with you.”

Cassandra felt the sorrow of a million losses flood her in an instant. She feared, as she stared into the swirling white mist around her, that she was never going to see her serpent father again.

( ) ( ) ( )

In the pit of Hell, a jackal had its teeth latched onto the throat of a panther. The panther had its claws hooked into every bit of flesh it could reach and was tearing. They’d been fighting for days which felt like years. Both were bloody, both were exhausted, both were nearing discorporation. 

Constantine, formerly Gilroy Davis Davidson, did not want to be re-corporated. He wanted to die. He was ready.

He was sorry for all he had done, and he was ready to pay the ultimate price.

With a fierce roar, he ripped the jackal apart. He would be back for another round in an hour or two, once Satan finished whatever paperwork he had to complete. 

In the meantime, Constantine collapsed in his human form beside the corpse of his jackal enemy. He had died in every way possible. He had been tortured in every way possible. He had been told the very worst things a man could be told…

He had been punished, and yet the shame of his sins did not bleed away.

He had banished so many people to an eternity of this suffering… He had landed himself in this pit of darkness because of his greed, because of his hatred—his pride. He had indulged in almost every sin there was, and he’d damned himself to an eternity of this. 

His only hope was that one day, the Rapture would finally start and Hell would be distracted with something else besides his punishment. 

“Up! Get up or it’s back in the lake!”

Constantine didn’t know which demon was accosting him—whether it was Hastur or Dagon or the worst of them all, Beelzebub. All he knew, was his limbs would not obey and he found himself sinking to the bottom of a molten-hot lake. 

His father had felt this many times, he thought. His demon father… His demon mother. He had burned in this lake when he first Fell, and whenever Beelzebub would get angry. Beelzebub truly loved to use the lake in his favor. 

If Constantine had realized that sooner, or even attempted to, he would never have tried to cut his wings off. He suffered enough. He’d suffered enough and Constantine was _sorry._

He never meant to anger his angel mother, he never meant to be so...blind. 

Constantine felt his body collapse onto the floor of the lake, a massive pressure crushing down on him—pulverizing him until he felt nothing but agony.

He cried in pain, screamed as the horrid sulfur seeped into his lungs. The pain was so immense, so overwhelming.

Then, all at once, it stopped. The crushing feeling remained, but when he dared to open the eyes that should have been boiled out of his head, Constantine was standing in his parents’ bedroom. 

“Father?” He said, recognizing the large black wings flapping restlessly on the bed. Feathers fell loose by the fist full. “Father, are you alright?” He asked again, watching as his father squirmed on the bed, realizing the moment the wings settled behind him as his father perched on the bed, that he was pregnant. “Father? What’s going on?” His demon father’s face was streaked in tears of blood as he shuffled, clearly trying to get comfortable in the bed. “Dad? What’s wrong?” He asked, more frantic as he came over to the bed and sat down. 

His father didn’t even look at him. 

“Dad?” He reached for his serpent father’s shoulder, only to move through him—feeling as if he’d dipped his hand into a pool of ice water. Immediately, he withdrew his hand and fumbled off the bed.

Was he dead? Actually dead? And back as a ghost?

But when would he have had time to become so clearly with child? Surely Constantine hadn’t been being tortured this long. 

“Angel? Angel, angel, angel...” His father was muttering to himself, more tears of blood rolling down his face. 

Downstairs, Constantine could hear his angel mother talking to someone. Annie? Constantine tried to move to the door and leave, but he was trapped in the room, trapped with his father who was moving about the pillows and blankets, as if trying to make himself a nest. 

Constantine tried to push past the barrier, but to no avail, and ended up back on the bed, seated beside his restless father. Mother? 

Yes, Constantine supposed this was his _mother,_ or a memory of him. Another punishment from Hell, no doubt—forcing him to feel the pain of his father he’d so horrifically betrayed.

Hours ticked by that he was trapped in this room. Sometimes his angel father would come in, but never long enough. Sometimes Annie would visit, but not for much longer. Why wouldn’t they stay? Their presence brought him so much comfort. What was so important downstairs?

Assholes, Constantine thought. What complete and utter _assholes._

They would visit and see how happy it made his serpent mother—made _him_ in this awful, lonesome memory—and then leave him in tears. 

“We’re just downstairs, my love.”

“I’ll be back after a bit. Just want to make some tea.”

“I’ll see you later, Dada!”

“Get some rest, dear. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

Sometimes they would move. Sometimes Constantine could follow his father downstairs, but it felt even more dismal than the bedroom. They didn’t _want_ him downstairs. His serpent mother’s tears soaked the couch and every now and then, his angel father would sigh in clear annoyance over it. 

Why was he so cruel? Why didn’t he just wipe the tears away as they fell? It’d probably stop them. All his mother wanted was attention, affection. He wanted included. He wanted loved…

He wanted _loved,_ Constantine realized, nausea twisting his guts. 

And all he had to love him was the baby inside him. 

Constantine was forced to watch as his mother was written off by his husband, by his daughter, and by Beelzebub. Beelzebub who, ever cruel, hissed at him that his child would never and could never love him. He’d cried so hard, become so distraught, that even his angel husband couldn’t console him. 

Even then, as soon as his serpent mother seemed to be more composed, his angel father left him alone again and he collapsed back where he had been. His wings fell limp against the bed, feathers falling out from nothing but sheer sorrow. 

Connie sat as close to his mother as he could in this hologram and tried to lean his head onto his cold, trembling shoulder. 

“I’m sorry, mother. Please forgive me… I love you, mother. I’ll love you more than both of them. I’ll have you all to myself and we can go off together. We’ll do great things _together._ Father will be so sorry he treated you like this. I’m so sorry, mother.”

Constantine felt the tears begin flowing from his eyes as he tried to nestle into his demon mother’s side—unable to feel anything but icy coldness. 

And then, suddenly, it was warm—solid and comforting. He felt feathers on his cheeks and clung to them. He held the body before him, burying himself in the soft skin and feathers. 

“It’s okay. It’s okay, little brother. I’m here. It’s over. I promise. I won’t let them hurt you.”

Annie. That was Annie’s voice. He wanted to hug her tighter—and simultaneously wanted to shove her away.

She had left their dear serpent mother to suffer alone, isolated and sick. She had been so stupid and selfish and cruel.

She had been just like Constantine…

So he held her tighter and cried like a small child, letting her wrap her gray wings around them both like a protective curtain. 

“I have you, my dear. You’re safe now. You’re safe.”

“Mother,” he wept. “I want my mother.”

( ) ( ) ( )

“Tea?”

Crowley’s entire attention was focused on a long, deep scratch on the surface of their dining room table. He’d been staring at it for days. 

“My dear, do you want some tea?”

It was Amadeus who’d put it there, Crowley was fairly certain—if he remembered correctly. He’d had such awful hand-eye coordination as a little boy. ‘Deus was gone now. So was Cass… Annie. Constantine. 

“Crowley! Do you want tea?”

“What?” He lifted his head which waved slightly back and forth. He didn’t have the concentration left to keep his body bound by human physics. Why he hadn’t collapsed into a pool of scales already was beyond him. Aziraphale was staring at him, looking both remarkably sad and remarkably angry. “What did you ask? I’m sorry. I wasn’t...”

“Here. You weren’t here,” Aziraphale said, very gently, despite the anger in his eyes. “I understand. I asked if you’d like some tea.”

“If you have enough to spare. Tea’s nice.”

“No cream, I’m afraid. Could always miracle for some but...” But it wouldn’t be the same.

“No cream. That’s fine. Thank you...” Then, before Aziraphale could move away from the doorway, he added, “Can I help? Do you want help?”

“I’ve already got the kettle on. I just wondered if I should get a cup for you.”

Crowley nodded then turned his focus back to the table. 

He wondered how Annie was, if she hadn’t been snapped up into the sky. He hadn’t heard from her and couldn’t exactly sneak into Hell to find her. He couldn’t sneak into Heaven to find his other two children either… Aziraphale could, but insisted it wouldn’t matter. He would never find them, he said, and even if he didn’t, he couldn’t bring them home. 

Crowley hated him the smallest bit for not even trying.

“Here you are, my dear. The breakfast tea is all we have left after this.”

Crowley leaned back from the table, forcing his eyes to focus on the cup and not the scratch Amadeus put in their table.

“Angel?”

“Yes, my dear?” Aziraphale was sitting next to him, cradling his own teacup.

“I want to leave… Let’s get out of this place.”

“Yes… I do think… I-I want to leave too.” He sounded like he was about to cry, but stifled it with a sip of tea. 

“We could go back to the bookshop. Do you remember those days?”

“The bookshop? Of course. But...do you think it’s still there?” 

Crowley looked at him, taking in how hopeful yet devastated he seemed.

“’Course it is. If we want it to be. It could look just like it used to. Doubt any customers will come bother us in this climate though,” he added, trying to make a joke and only managing to get the smallest of sighs from his angel. 

“Do you suppose...Annie would know to look for us there? If she comes here and we’ve gone?”

“If she doesn’t think we’ve been Raptured, yes. It’s the only other place she knows. She’d find me there, at any rate. I’m not about to get a one way ticket to Heaven any time soon.”

“I don’t think I am either,” Aziraphale said with a shaky breath. Crowley could tell it frightened him. The thought of being left behind absolutely terrified him, even if it meant staying on Earth with Crowley. Even so, the demon didn’t blame him for it. He could never fault Aziraphale for being an angel and enjoying it. 

“I’m sure you will be… At some point. Or, you know… You’re Heaven’s Ambassador on Earth. Maybe you’re supposed to wait here while reinforcements arrive.”

“I don’t want to go to war. I _hate_ war.”

“Well, you’re an angel. You’re supposed to.” Crowley finally took a sip of tea and yearned so badly for cream that it showed up, kind of, in the tea—absolutely ruining it as the soured dairy floated to the top. He set the cup aside. 

“You knew what would happen if you did that,” Aziraphale said, glancing into his cup.

“I didn’t _mean_ to. It just happened.”

Aziraphale smiled at him, then started laughing—a charming and sad little chuckle that had Crowley leaning over to place his head on the angel’s shoulder. They stayed that way a long time, Aziraphale’s arms having gone to wrap around Crowley’s shoulders and waist. They might’ve even put off leaving the cottage altogether, for the sake of staying like this for the rest of their suddenly very short eternity, if not for their front door bursting open.

Humans, Crowley thought as he leapt to his feet. They’d come a few times trying to raid the place, but he always made quick work of them. 

“Mother!? Father?” 

At the sound of Constantine’s voice, Crowley almost collapsed back into his chair. He might’ve, if not for how suddenly angry Aziraphale seemed. He got to his feet as well, and started for the living room—his skin starting to glow with divine fury. 

“Angel—angel, no! Angel, don’t! That’s my son!” Crowley called, chasing after him—unable to touch him to hold him back.

“I told you I didn’t _want_ you here!” Aziraphale shouted.

“Father, please!” 

“Aziraphale, don’t! He has nowhere to go! He’s suffered enough. Just let me talk to him,” Crowley pleaded, trying so hard to get between them. It was unfair that he could become so overwhelmed with angelic rage that Crowley couldn’t even touch him without being burned horrifically. 

“He’s _not_ your son! He is a monster, Crowley, and I won’t let him worm his way back in here and hurt you again. I already told you the awful things he tried to do!”

“Father, please forgive me—I was wrong then. I was terribly, terribly wrong—” Constantine was pleading, tears in his eyes that for the first time in his life seemed genuine. Crowley couldn’t help but to pity him. This was his _child._ His oldest _son._ The one he carried, the one _he_ birthed. The one he spent close to two years carrying—all alone, all by himself, because no one else could bear to be near him.

“How nice of you to realize it only after you have lost everything!” Aziraphale shouted. “I banished you! I told you not to come back here!”

“Aziraphale, please don’t do this!” Crowley called, cringing as he pushed past the angel—biting back the scream as his holy radiance burnt his flesh black within an instant of brushing against him. 

“My darling—don’t! Crowley!” Aziraphale finally stopped glowing and looking horrified, watching as the char settled on Crowley’s skin. 

“He’s my son, Aziraphale,” Crowley groaned, standing between them. “He has nowhere to go. You can’t send him back out there.

Only then, after standing his ground between the angel and their twisted child, did Crowley realize Constantine had a bundle of shabby, greenish-gray blankets in his arms.

“What is that?” He asked, feeling something pulse from it. An egg? Did he steal it from Annie?

“It’s hers—hers and Beelzebub’s. She sent me with it. She told me he wasn’t safe in Hell. It’s not safe anywhere. Not anywhere,” Constantine said, his voice shaking with so much terror. 

Aziraphale, at the mention of the baby, tensed significantly. 

“Is Annie alright?” Crowley asked, looking from the bundle to his son’s haunted face. 

“She’s fine for now. Beelzebub is… Oh, mother!” Constantine collapsed into tears, his head dropping down onto Crowley’s shoulder. As he cried, Crowley was able to shift the bundle of blanket and very warm baby—not egg, baby!—into his arms. “We… We changed back, you know?” Crowley said, his heart feeling weighted down as if by stones. “Your mother—”

“No—No, no! You have it all wrong!” Constantine sobbed. _“You’re_ my mother. I should have realized. I should have understood. I am so, so sorry, mother.”

The next thing Crowley knew, he was being hugged by the son who had, since early adolescence, always avoided him—always passed him up to get affection from Aziraphale. For a moment, the warmth of it overshadowed the agony of his burns.

“Is that...a grandchild?” Aziraphale asked, trying to peer around them at the baby. Crowley was more than happy to turn and show him, but the instant he tried, Constantine stepped between them, motioning to Crowley’s burnt shoulder and arm.

“Look what you’ve done to him!”

“Connie, I’m fine,” Crowley said, so caught off guard that his voice didn’t even sound convincing to himself.

“No, he’s hurt you! He banished me for trying to hurt you—and I did, I’m so sorry, mother—but look what _he’s_ done!”

“It was an accident!” Aziraphale said, looking horrified and guilty. “I never meant—”

“But you did! Oh, but you did, father! You damned me for trying to hurt him, but you tortured him! You left him all alone! He _cried_ for you, father, and you left him by himself to suffer!”

“Connie, that’s enough—we’re fine. It’s fine! Please. Don’t do this. Please don’t do this,” Crowley said, swallowing hard as he looked between his husband and his child. He couldn’t do much to intervene with a baby in his arms.

“Mother, I _saw_ it. I _saw_ you. Satan or God—I don’t know which, but one of them showed me. They showed me you, up there, all by yourself. Feathers falling out, crying all day. And they would just _leave you._ Father and Annie just left you there crying, so lonely—so sad. And now he’s _burnt_ you!”

“Connie, the world is trying to end. I don’t want to do this right now. I don’t want to do this at all. Please stop. Please let it go.”

Constantine did not look at all like he wanted to give up the fight, but Aziraphale looked devastated and that seemed to please him enough for the moment and he stepped down.

“His name is Dionysus,” Connie said, gesturing to the baby as Crowley brought the bundle closer to Aziraphale and uncovered him a bit. “He’s got Beelzebub’s eyes.”

“Oh, he does! He does,” Aziraphale said, smiling—then seeming to feel guilty for it, stifled it and moved slightly back. 

“He’s not very old at all… Something must’ve happened down there to make Beelzebub ask you to bring him up.”

“Beelzebub… No, it was Annie. I don’t know where Beelzebub is. She hasn’t seen him in three weeks. I think Satan caught him. I think the bastard saw it coming, too. Left his watch on the bed and just disappeared.”

“His watch?” Aziraphale asked. 

“It was this special thing he made. Tracks how long he and Annie have been together. She told me he made one when he was with Michael, too, and threw it away after Wrath was born because he didn’t like her anymore. Can’t believe he’d do that to Annie, though. They seem so attached,” Constantine said, moving further into the house, leaving Crowley to close the door behind him,

He seemed different without a hoard of followers behind him—without a church to speak of. His new body, which Crowley suspected was his several times over new corporeal body, was taller, more muscular, and had darker blonde hair than usual. His eyes were still yellow, though, and the pupils only the slightest bit more thin than they had been in the past. 

Aziraphale did not look happy with him being in the house, but he kept quiet about it now—seemingly put in his place after Connie had snapped at him for the burns. 

Constantine sank into Crowley’s throne, leaving his fathers to sit across from him on the couch. Crowley coaxed Aziraphale into holding the baby—sharing a smile with him they fawned over it together. Connie, for the moment, sat with his head in his hands, silent, while they discussed the baby together. 

“You are _obsessed_ with children, mother,” Connie finally muttered, face still covered. 

“So I like kids. Not like it’s a problem. I’m not some pervert or anything. They’re just so…perfect. They’re innocent and mischievous and so full of life. So full of promise. This little guy could be anything.”

“Or nothing,” Constantine said. “Or like me. Or like Wrath or Delilah. He’s not a Virtue, whatever he is. He’s not like Cass and Amadeus. He’s like me and Annie. He’ll be a Sin...if he even grows up to know what that is.”

“There are worse things to be.”

“Worse than Wrath? That thing is a monster. Beelzebub is a demon—through and through. Not like you, mother.”

“Wrath was evil because he was born into Hell out of Hate,” Crowley said, staring down at the little baby who looked up at him curiously. Any time he smiled at him, Dionysus would giggle and move his hands around. 

“And what about me, mother?”

“What about you?” Crowley asked, looking to his son. 

“There was never a moment I hated your father,” Aziraphale said, quite bitterly. His words seeming to imply and unspoken ‘but I do hate you.’

“Could have fooled me,” Connie said, looking away from both of them. “Why else would you leave him alone like that? Bleeding all over himself, molting out of depression. You didn’t love him then. You can’t convince me otherwise.”

The words hurt Crowley more than he could bear to admit. It was true, wasn’t it? His state of being back then had repulsed Aziraphale so much that—

“It made me sad to look at him,” Aziraphale said, looking away toward the covered window. “I couldn’t handle it. I didn’t want to be in that room. I couldn’t help him—I couldn’t help you,” he said, suddenly looking to Crowley and placing a hand on his knee. “It was never for lack of love. I was...ashamed. I was ashamed of what I’d done to you. Nothing I did was enough to make you happy.”

“I _was_ happy,” Crowley said, looking down at his grandson in order to stave off tears. “Any time you were with me, I was happy. I couldn’t… I’ve never understood why you just didn’t want to stay with me.”

“Because he didn’t love you,” Constantine snapped.

“Be quiet!” Aziraphale shouted, far louder than necessary. “You will not play your games with _us._ I love your father—there has never been a moment that I haven’t. I have not always been the best at showing it, but the love is still there!”

“I don’t want to fight about this,” Crowley said, sinking in on himself as he pulled the baby back into his arms. 

“You _burnt_ him! Look at his arm!”

“You renounced him! You told me to my face you thought he was nothing!”

“Well, I was wrong! Mother is everything to me! Mother is _everything_ and we’re going off together! We’re going far away from you!”

“I’m not going anywhere! Stop this!” Crowley shouted. The baby began to fuss, his face screwing up in a mock cry. “My arm will heal—it’s fine. Things happen. I don’t need to leave because of it. Connie, I love you, I really do—but the world is about to end as we all know it, and I’m not going to leave your father here alone to cope with it.”

“Why? He was happy to leave you to cope with me, wasn’t he?” Connie asked, looking angry now. He didn’t like being told no, and he hated it even more when his actors didn’t play the roles he expected of them. 

“If you want to stay here, you’ll drop the subject,” Crowley said. “I’m happy to have you home, Constantine. It’s been so long since we’ve gotten to really spend time with each other.”

Aziraphale huffed but otherwise did not argue. For a moment, when all of their mouths were closed at least, it felt almost peaceful.


	23. Chapter 23

Connie managed two weeks in the cottage before he finally left, storming out in a huff because his now ‘darling serpent mother’ didn’t see things his way. It hurt that he left, but what hurt more was that he took the baby with him. Annie had charged him with looking after the little tyke, he said. Crowley had a bad feeling about it, but his son had shown no interest in hurting or otherwise using the baby to earn any favor. Perhaps he was afraid of what Beelzebub would do to him if he did—assuming Beelzebub was still alive.

Crowley hardly imagined the demon prince had been Raptured, but it didn’t sound like him at all to go off and leave Annie completely alone. He left behind his watch, though, his timepiece which showed how long he’d spent with his wife… 

What Crowley wanted to know above all else was if the watch was still ticking—still keeping track of the passage of time, or if it had stopped. Therein lay the truth to Beelzebub’s meaning behind it.

With the cottage empty yet again, Crowley and Aziraphale packed up what they didn’t dare leave behind—family photographs, a few special books, their last bottle of good wine, among other small things—and left the cottage forever. 

The bookshop had been torn down over a century ago, but the high-rise condos which took its place had been turned to rubble from the South American bombing. 

It didn’t matter. The bookshop was still there when they arrived—because Crowley wanted more than anything for it to be. 

It was empty and dusty and far too quiet, but after a day or two, Aziraphale’s memory started to fill it up. The miracled books weren’t quite right, and the miracled furniture didn’t suit his tastes—and the records he played on the gramophone didn’t sound like he remembered...but it was home. It was their home. 

It felt like it, too, until the afternoon candles began lighting themselves and Aziraphale was forming a little ritual on the floor where a symbol to call the Metatron appeared of its own accord.

Crowley didn’t really want to hear anything God had to say, but he stayed quiet and listened while his husband and the Metatron spoke.

The Rapture had reached completion, the Metatron said. All of God’s finest souls had been taken to the safety of Heaven, leaving behind the Fallen—and Aziraphale. He, too, would need to leave the earthly plane very soon. He would be called upon, and he would have no choice but to go. He would return in thirty days, at which time Heaven and Hell would wage their war against each other.

The Metatron made a point at this moment to specifically state that no efforts, human or otherwise, could stop it. Now was the time. All was as it must be. 

“And what of my children?” Aziraphale asked, his voice trembling so terribly. Crowley wished he could step forth and shield him, hold him, but it was no use. If he got too close to the Metatron, it would kill him.

Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing, but he couldn’t go. Not now. Not when he was needed. Not when he had so many questions that were damn well going to be answered before he let go of his existence. 

“Two are in God’s keeping. They will return to the Earth at your side when it is time for the war. Two are Below. They will return to _his_ side when it is time for the war.”

“I cannot fight my husband—I can’t fight against Crowley,” Aziraphale said, tears finally breaking free. “Against my own children. Please!”

“You will do as you are instructed. It is God’s will.”

“I won’t kill my children.”

“You will do as God wills or you will join them Below. The two Virtues entrusted to you will remain in the Almighty’s charge.”

Aziraphale let out a deep sob and bowed his head. Crowley, for what it was worth, tried his best not to think about it. They were helpless. Reduced to pawns in the Almighty’s game. She gave them children—four beautiful, wonderful children—and a grandchild, and now She was taking them away.

Crowley vowed, privately, that when the time came, he would go to war to protect his children. He didn’t care which one, he didn’t care against whom. He would lay himself down at the feet of God if he had to, if it stopped her from wiping Constantine or Annie off the face of the Earth. He would sink his teeth into Satan’s throat if he so much as dared to pass a glance in Cassandra or Amadeus’ direction on the battlefield. 

“And… And what of my—”

“I am not here to answer your questions, only to give your orders.”

“Where’s my grandson?” Crowley said, staring at the wall. “I’ll ask. I’m not afraid to ask. Where’s the baby _She_ brought into the world with the intent to destroy it?”

“Crowley, please!” Aziraphale called, choked with tears.

“What’s She gonna do? Smite me? Damn me? She made it clear I’m not on Her side. Not on yours either. I want to know where my family is.”

The Metatron, who Aziraphale probably appreciated more than Crowley, didn’t have to answer, but did anyway.

“The baby, born of Sin and Evil, is in God’s keeping. He will stay there.”

“So you killed it,” Crowley said, feeling hatred consume him. Perhaps this was why he Fell. Perhaps this twisted, vicious logic of ‘all is as what must be, stop asking questions’ was enough to push him over the edge. It surely was now. 

The Metatron tried to say something, some convoluted ‘all is as what must be’ bullshit that Crowley didn’t want to hear. He ignored it, sniffing back tears of his own as he tried to think of something—anything—else. Connie was still out there, and Annie… He’d see his other children again soon, even if it was across the battlefield. 

Maybe he could get them all together, maybe he could gather them in one spot and pull them off of this forsaken planet. They could go someplace else, some place safe… Hell, if it made Annie happy, he’d try to bring Beelzebub too. He’d bring their lover Dagon if he had to. They’d make their own little Hell somewhere like Alpha Centauri. Amadeus and Cass might not like it much, but they could always return to Earth once things calmed down.

Heaven would win, undoubtedly. They’d have a place there. God might even forget to be angry with him after a millennia or two and he could come back too. 

“My dear, do you really need to antagonize yourself against the Metatron? Against _the Almighty?”_

“Killed my grandson,” Crowley said, squeezing his eyes shut to hold back the tears.

“Remember what Beelzebub said. _Please._ They don’t die. They can’t die. What the Metatron was saying is that the baby is in _Her_ keeping until the war is over. The Earth would be no place for him now. It’s a battlefield, a war zone. How could any of us fight—how could any of us protect each other—if there’s a baby in our arms? I know… I know you’re hurt and you’re angry. I understand. Please know that I do… But my Lord God has a plan. She has a plan for all of us. She wouldn’t have made our children just to destroy them.”

“She’s done that plenty of times. Remember the arc? Mesopotamia? What about Christ? He died. She made him just to destroy him. Cain and Abel… Me. Don’t make Her out to be some hero. She doesn’t care about any of us. She doesn’t have a plan for _any_ of us except to see us suffer. She wants me to fall to my knees and plead forgiveness, but I won’t. I won’t ever. All She’s ever done is take from me.”

“And _give!_ She gave us our children—She gave you your wing back. She could’ve just wiped all the demons off the plane of existence instead of making you Fall if She wanted to! I for one choose to be _thankful_ for Her mercy! I choose to be _grateful_ She didn’t wipe you from existence. I love you! I’ve loved our time together. I love my children—please don’t make me spend the last _however long I have_ fighting with you!”

Crowley sighed and then nodded. He had a point, and what good would it do anyway? They were both going to end up in the clutches of their own respective sides no matter what they wanted. 

“Yes, yes,” Crowley said, unable to concede just to please the angel but willing to let it drop. “Let’s open that bottle of wine tonight. What say you?”

“The wine? Oh… Yes. I suppose there’s not going to be a much better time.”

So they drank together, not enough in the bottle for them to really get drunk when it was shared between the two of them, but they tried. They talked about Paris a lot, not even during the Revolution days. Crowley wasn’t sure why they got stuck on the subject, but he preferred it over countless other subjects that came to mind. 

Before long, Crowley had miracled for a record to put on the gramophone—one which ‘sounded better’ than the ones Aziraphale had managed to manifest. It was old music, music humans had forgotten about long ago, but Aziraphale liked it and Crowley didn’t mind it much at all. 

They’d finished their bottle of wine two days ago, but were pretending it still had influence over them—that or they just saw no further need to filter what it was they had to say to each other. 

There were bombs going off outside. Gunshots that sounded like an invasion. Government officials spoke to the dwindling population over old-fashioned megaphones that got them pummeled with stones until the rioters were chased out. All the while, the angel and demon talked and listened to their music in the bookshop no one else could see. 

Sometimes, they tried to dance but only ended up stepping on each other’s feet and laughing. Angels really could not dance, even if their lives depended on it. Crowley found that, given Aziraphale’s countless years on the Earth to practice, absolutely hilarious. 

He pretended to still find it funny as a bright burst of white light took Aziraphale away from him without giving him the chance to say goodbye. 

Crowley didn’t have long to dwell on his fake good humor or his sorrow, as he curled up as a serpent in the middle of the floor in the last place Aziraphale had been standing. It seemed right that he would be the last one left—the last one to go. He hated it. It hurt so much… But he would rather be the one to do the suffering than to have left Aziraphale in the bookshop instead. At least with the angel in Heaven, he knew he was safe. 

Thirty days, the Metatron had said.

Thirty days until they’d meet again. He hoped. 

Slowly, Crowley felt himself begin sinking into the floor, a hot rush of air coming up around him as he was pulled back down into Hell. 

Thirty days. He just had to make it another thirty days, then… Then Alpha Centauri. Pluto. Jupiter. A black hole far from the sun. Somewhere. Anywhere. He’d make sure they were all together again.

( ) ( ) ( )

Aziraphale wondered if this was what humans felt when they died and went to Heaven. He’d never been privy to that side of things, merely tasked with looking over them while they were alive. He’d heard many tellings in many churches about what it was supposed to be like, and this certainly fit with the descriptions.

It was bright and white—just as Heaven always was—and his children were there, smiling at him.

“Papa! You finally made it!” Cassandra was hugging him and he had his arms around her so quickly he barely even registered that he’d moved. Amadeus was hugging the both of them, squeezing impossibly tight, murmuring his own greetings. 

“Oh, my dove, my darling—you’re alright! I’m so glad you’re alright!”

“Of course I am! We’re with Her. Of course we’re alright,” Cass was saying. 

“It’s much better up here, Papa. Everybody has their own uniform. She can’t go giving her clothes away,” Amadeus said, his joke earning a tearful laugh from Aziraphale. 

“What have you been doing?” He asked them, stroking each of their heads with one hand—relishing the feeling of their soft hair beneath his fingers. He honestly had his doubts that they would still appear as their human selves. He had fears he would be seeing them as the same sort of creature he himself was underneath his guise of a man. 

“Supervising,” Amadeus said. 

“Helping.” Cass smiled at him, full of the same warmth and love as always. “Dada is Below now. He’s with Annie and Connie. You don’t have to worry.”

“I’m afraid I’ll still worry,” Aziraphale said, trying not to show his pain. Her words were meant to reassure him, but he’d almost prefer Crowley be alone than anywhere near Constantine in the pit of Hell.

“We made a new friend, Papa,” Cass said, holding one of his hands between both of hers. “You know him, I’m sure.”

“He’s told us that much,” Amadeus interjected. “Sandalphon, Papa. He’s been looking over us since we got here. He’s an archangel. A good one, right?”

Aziraphale nodded. He had been wondering when he might turn up again. They hadn’t spoken since Annie had been captured by the forces of Hell over a century ago. To think she was there willingly now… 

He wondered what the archangel thought of that.

“Do you want to see him, Papa? He’s eager to talk to you, but the Almighty mandated we have time together. Just us. Together. Isn’t that so lovely?” Cassandra was beaming at him, but there was a sadness in her eyes that he couldn’t mistake for anything else. 

“Yes… Yes, I suppose I should meet with him. Have you made any other, er, friends up here? Do you have friends?” It was a good thing, he told himself. All of his children for so long had been denied the standard friendships since mortal lives were so short. Here, at least, his children could form relationships with someone. 

“Oh, yes! Yes, several, in fact,” Amadeus answered. 

“We’ll introduce you! I met a boy named Thomas—he’s lived on Earth, too! He’s not very lively and the angels keep a close eye on him, but he’s really quite wonderful!”

“Another Virtue, perhaps?” Aziraphale asked.

“No. The others are here, but… They’re very strange. I think they’re rather young.”

“They definitely are,” Amadeus answered. “They follow Sandalphon around and don’t do anything for themselves. They’re all the products of humans. I don’t know what they were expected to do on their own down there.”

“I guess there weren’t enough demons or angels in love to go around,” Aziraphale said, wondering about the implications of that fact. If the remaining Virtues had all been born to humans and were all still so very young...had their parents died? It took Annie two decades to start acting ten years old. A human could die in that amount of time. If they had a child later in life, as humans were more prone to doing in the modern era, it was very likely they’d be infirm by the time their child actually reached maturity. “Those poor creatures.”

“I like them very much,” Cass said. “”Deus doesn’t have much patience for them, but I think they’re wonderful. They’re like little lost ducklings. Sometimes I get to lead them around. I’ll show you! Oh, Papa! There’s so much I can’t wait to show you!”

So she introduced Aziraphale to the Virtues who were all definitely very young. The youngest was only fifteen mortal years, presenting now as a girl of maybe seven or eight. She was terribly shy and hid behind one of the older Virtues, a boy. What Virtues they represented, Aziraphale didn’t know. He had an inkling that the timid little girl was kindness, but wasn’t certain. They seemed to like him more than the other angels, Amadeus noted as they carried on to a different room in Heaven. 

The room was more of a conference room, angels all sitting around a white marble table who looked up at him as if he were late.

“Papa is here now,” Cass said, announcing them to the room as if they weren’t already staring. Sandalphon in his brown suit was smiling at him like an old friend from the head of the table, but he was the only one.

“The Principality Aziraphale, you mean?” Snapped an angel with a rather elaborate beard and mustache. Aziraphale felt like he’d met the angel somewhere before... “Hasn’t anyone taught this about _proper_ introduction? _Formal_ introduction? No one here cares who her blasted father is.” 

Cassandra, for what it was worth, was undaunted by the harshness in his voice. Aziraphale did his best to look past it since divine fury would get him nowhere among his own kind.

Amadeus, on the other hand, was livid.

“Don’t talk to her like that! Who do you think you are? You’re no archangel! You’re in no place to be bossing anyone around!”

“I am a General, as a matter of fact, boy—”

“Well you’re nothing to me. I serve God and God alone. And I won’t stand for you speaking down to my sister. She and I are God’s finest creations. I do think _She_ would be disappointed in you speaking to Cassandra that way.”

He spoke—Aziraphale’s timid little boy—like his father. His serpent father.

“How dare you assume you know the will of the Almighty!?”

“Gentlemen, that is really quite enough,” Sandalphon said, still smiling as if they had finished telling a pleasant story. “Cassandra, dear, welcome. Please forgive him. He’s not used to speaking to those outside his own ranks. How often we forget that you precious Virtues are regarded as divine miracles meant to be _protected.”_ He did give the bearded angel a very stern glance upon finishing his statement. “If you’d excuse me, I should rather like to speak to Aziraphale in private. I’ll return in just a moment’s time.” Sandalphon exited the room and motioned for Aziraphale and his children to follow him to a smaller room across the wide hallway.

As he did, he heard that bearded angel mutter something about “demon-lover,” which he would have typically ignored—until he saw the look of hurt in his daughter’s eyes when she overheard it as well.

“Do excuse me,” Aziraphale said, centering himself in the doorway and fixing his eyes on the bearded angel. “But at least _I_ was able to find a partner to contribute to God’s divine plan. Four times, in fact. How many of the Virtues are your doing?” 

The angel stammered a moment, seeming taken aback that Aziraphale would dare address a “General” so disrespectfully.

“None then? Well, how about the Sins? I hear they’re much easier to come by. None of those either? Well… What _is_ your contribution?”

“I serve as a General in _Her_ army!”

“So we’ll say one contribution of service as opposed to mine and Crowley’s four. Not bad for a _demon-lover,_ wouldn’t you say?”

“Now, now, Aziraphale,” Sandalphon interjected. “You know old habits die hard. We shall have a talk with him. Come along.”

“Fine,” Aziraphale muttered, scowling ever darkly at the bearded angel who was still sputtering—wanting to come up with something and unable to think fast enough. 

“Bigot,” Amadeus snapped, getting the last word before Sandalphon closed the office door as the bearded angel started to rise. 

“Now, now, dear boy—” Sandalphon attempted.

“First he insults my sister, then my father. I won’t have it. We deserve as much respect as anyone else here. Don’t know who he thinks he is, going around talking like that.” Then, very quietly, he added, “Dad was right all along about this place.”

“Now, come along. In you get,” Sandalphon said, corralling the small, half family into the little meeting room and shutting the door. “Really now. I know you do dwell with a demon but please try to act more civil.”

“Tell him to be civil and I’ll listen. It’s got nothing to do with being a demon or angel and everything to do with respect,” Amadeus snapped.

“Young man, you need to learn to take direction from superiors.”

“I take orders from the Almighty. She said not to allow for discrimination among Her angels, and that if I need to talk to Her, I need only pray. She listens to me.”

“It’s fascinating, Aziraphale,” Sandalphon said, completely disregarding Amadeus who did not appreciate it. “The Almighty speaks directly to all her Virtues.”

Aziraphale did not care to mention the evening he spoke to the Almighty himself—when she offered forgiveness after he exploded in divine rage in the depths of Hell. 

“What of the Sins? Does She speak to them?”

“I can’t say for certain. We do have one, er… Well, technically two, but one _active_ … Er, no. Active’s not quite the right word for him. Forgive me. The baby is with God. I cannot take you to him. He is a Sin, but is in Her protection. No one has even been allowed to see him. As for the other… Thomas, darling boy. Born to humans—I believe I mentioned him in passing last time we spoke. He’s here. Despite his, shall we say, _talents_ for encouraging sin, he has not once tempted a mortal. I fear he’s...too efficient for his own good. He’s spent most of his existence sleeping and smoking strange plants. When Hell tried to recruit him, he said no. The Almighty thought it unfair to leave him and brought him here. I don’t believe She had time to talk with him, though. He’s rather charming when he’s...awake.”

“Sloth, then?” Aziraphale asked. Cassandra, for some reason, was beaming.

“Yes, Papa. When he sleeps, you can do literally _anything_ to him and he won’t wake up. The angels have had quite a bit of fun with him. The other Virtues play with his hair and all sorts of things.”

“Well that’s rather cruel, don’t you think?”

“Not at all! He doesn’t mind. He said it’s fun to see how he’ll wake up next time. Once they even slid him into somebody’s office, put him in the chair behind the desk—some big, up top angel’s seat. He didn’t think it was very funny, but Thomas didn’t mind. We all got a laugh out of it.”

So that was how his children spent their days in Heaven… Tormenting some poor boy who couldn’t keep his eyes open. And the Almighty had sent _them_ to look for discrimination? What was this world coming to?

( ) ( ) ( )

“Do you even still love my daughter?” Crowley asked, lounging in chains against a wall made of dripping, wet brick. He had a sinking suspicion it was wet with blood, but he didn’t look and he didn’t bother to ask.

“Be quiet and pretend you’re being tortured,” Beelzebub answered, sitting cross-legged on the floor several paces away with his back to Crowley. They’d been in here for three days, at least, pretending to fight—pretending Crowley was being tortured into confessing to being a double agent for Heaven. 

Beelzebub had been put to the task because Satan didn’t believe the “angel” (yes, he still believed Crowley was truly an angel after Aziraphale’s little stunt) would kill his daughter’s husband. Beelzebub had seen this exchange coming and had preemptively informed Satan that he was dissolving his union to Antigone, forgoing his protection of her, and would like the opportunity to prove himself worthy of his station by torturing Crowley into a confession.

As it turned out, Beelzebub wasn’t man enough to actually follow through with it beyond a few well-aimed punches and a dip in the lake of sulfur. 

Hell was too busy to come check on their progress, and always sent Dagon—Beelzebub and Annie’s third wheel of a lover—to do the reports. Hell was so damned used to hatred and mistrust breeding between demons that it didn’t even consider the possibility that love would, somehow, prevail between its internal enemies. 

“I’m just asking,” Crowley said, letting his head loll back and forth. 

“Does she believe I do?”

“I don’t know. Haven’t seen her in a while. Told me you left your watch behind. Still ticking, though. I told her that was a good sign and I’m not too sure she believed me.”

“Be quiet or I really will start to torture you,” he said, digging into the dirt beneath him with a shard of bone. 

“How long before this war kicks off anyway?”

“I said to be quiet.” 

“Well, give me something to do then. ‘S bloody boring down here.” Crowley had long ago tossed away all the rocks and pebbles near him, amusing himself with how far he could get them to go.

At that moment, Dagon cracked open the door and slipped inside, peering through the crack in the door just before she closed it all the way—the neurotic fish demon afraid someone was following her.

“Coast is clear, my Prince. I have a report.”

“What is it?” Beelzebub asked, his voice a heavy sigh. 

“We are sending forces Above to being laying siege to the human souls that remain. His Lord of Darkness wonders if...you believe you’ve made progress or if...execution is in order?” 

“Oh, execution is definitely in order. Put him on the front lines. Let them humans have him. Put him alongside his son. I think that’ll do.”

“Oh… Yes! Yes, of course,” Dagon said, looking baffled a moment. Then, all at once, her face lit up. “Yes! Absolutely! Shall I inform—”

“Send him up with the first group. Wrath is leading it, yes?”

“Of course. And Lord Satan told me to tell you that...he has corporations at the ready in case anything should happen to Wrath in the first round.”

“So… What, you’re sending me up to kill humans or die?” Crowley asked.

“Yes. On the front lines. Your corporation can die and there won’t be another one for you. I would suggest fighting in your true form if you want to stay alive. Send some souls down our way and perhaps Satan might spare you once this war is over—let you live out the rest of eternity in this nice little cell,” Beelzebub snapped. 

“That’s the best you can do? C’mon. We’re in-laws. Show a little compassion.”

“If you attempt to leave the front lines, there are other demons who will slaughter you. _Wrath_ in particular, is fond of the opportunity,” Beelzebub warned.

Right. So running away wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d hoped, but not impossible. 

“Please remember that what you do reflects on Antigone. I cannot protect her anymore.”

“Is she going up with the front lines, too?”

Beelzebub looked to Dagon who bit her lip and seemed very reluctant to speak that answer.

“Dagon, speak,” Beelzebub commanded.

“Yes, my Prince. She is. B-But I don’t think the humans would hurt her! She is...such a lovely thing. I’m sure she’ll find a good place to hide out and...procure souls her usual way.”

Crowley could feel the rage pouring off the Lord of the Flies from across the room. 

“Send her in. Send me my soldiers for the front line.”

“My Prince—Beelzebub, you’re not...you’re not supposed to go.”

“Well, I am going. Who else is going to make sure this shit show goes down like it’s supposed to?”

The forces being sent to the front lines were far too great in mass to be corralled into the room where Crowley and Beelzebub were pretending to carry out torture. He was moved, still in chains like some sort of slave—or some sort of dog—and led to a large gathering beside the lake of sulfur he was terribly afraid he was about to be dunked in again as some sort of initiation. 

Luckily, he was not. And, luck still on his side, he was allowed to stand between his son and daughter. As he was lined up, Dagon was trying desperately not to meet Antigone’s eyes, but once she had, it was only a moment before she faintly touched the chains on Crowley’s wrists and they fell away silently. None of the other demons—including Hastur who was giving some grotesque version of a pep talk—noticed, but Annie did and she smiled at him brightly. It was the same smile she’d given him when he’d returned to Hell, when she’d wrapped him in her arms, still a serpent, and held him to her chest like some precious artifact. 

Constantine, at his other side, was staring at Hastur like a dutiful soldier—presumably happy to be back in Hell. He was giving Crowley no attention, hiding the affections he’d offered as well when Crowley had arrived in Hell. He did, however, shove a crumbled up scrap of paper into Crowley’s hand that he only dared to read in glances while Beelzebub and Hastur (and then irritating, barking Wrath) gave their orders—then fought amongst each other because demons couldn’t get along even to start a war.

SERPENT 9:9-13  
FOR he who shows Repentance, who falls before Lord God and cries, ‘Ah! I have been weak! I have Betrayed You!’ shall be shown Forgiveness.   
FOR all who seek Repentance and admonish their Sins before God may fear no Retribution.  
THOSE who do not seek Repentance and do not mourn for their sins shall be shown not Forgiveness and shall Suffer Eternal.  
These Are the Words of Gilroy Davis Davidson.  
AMEN.

“Well, I know where you’ll be going,” Crowley said, rolling his eyes as he let the scripture sink down to the ground. Not his best thought out decision as Beelzebub noted the letter instantly and demanded it be passed to him. 

“Give me that. What is this? Are we humans? Are we children?” Beelzebub snapped, uncrumpling the paper.

“What does it say?” Beelzebub’s son barked, peering over his shoulder.

Beelzebub rolled his eyes, having much the same reaction as Crowley, and tossed the paper aside.

“More great scripture from our Little Lord Gilroy Davis Davidson. Our defamed King of the 10th Circle,” Beelzebub announced. “Planning to convert some followers for us? Some of the damned souls left above ground?” He asked.

“Yes, m’Lord!” Constantine called out, his voice having that same noble ring it did when he addressed his disciples. “It is my only wish to be of service to you! To re-earn my place among you and the Dark Council, my brother!”

“Connie, stop it,” Annie whispered harshly. 

“Do _not_ address me as your brother. You are nothing to me. You are being sent above to die and nothing more. If the angels won’t do it, we’ll see to it that the demons do. Is that understood?”

The army of demons gave an affirmative cry, hoping the same fate wouldn’t be cast upon them. 

“Alright then. Sparing any more gospel of Gilroy What’zzz hizz name,” Beelzebub said, his buzzing giving away his excitement—or was it nerves? “Let’s get up there and make some trouble!”


	24. Chapter 24

Aziraphale feared a moment, foolishly as it were considering there was a war going on, that his youngest daughter was in love. She spent much of her time around a boy called Thomas—the Sin of Sloth—and was very seldom not at his side if the boy was awake. There were certainly far more pressing matters at hand, such as his training for the battlefield, but he kept a watchful eye over her daughter and Thomas.

He seemed polite enough, though his head was always nodding in and out whenever anyone spoke to him. He was useless as a solider and Aziraphale had no clue what Heaven or God or anyone had planned to do with him. 

Cass was so close with him and Aziraphale was terribly afraid the boy might make a move—even in the Heavenly plane. He tried to keep Amadeus, the virtue of Prudence… Chastity, nearby. With his influence, surely nothing would come of it. 

But nothing ever did. Like with Matthias, it seemed Cassandra had just made a new friend. Sloth seemed more interested in sleep and creature comforts than Lust. He had asked six times if Aziraphale or any other angel might know where he could find ‘Southern Style Chicken and Biscuits.’ They sounded marvelous, whatever they were, and Aziraphale was sorry to say no. 

“Do let me know if you find some. They sound scrumptious.”

“You’re an angel, right?” The boy asked, sitting down beside Aziraphale’s feet—bored with standing up and practicing their battle moves, apparently.

“Yes. I would think that quite obvious—now get up, for Heaven’s sake! Literally, for Heaven’s sake!”

“Oh, what’s the use? I’ll just sleep through it all anyway. It’s what I did last time there was a big mass slaughter. Did I ever tell you I was part of this movable church once? The pastor called it a ‘Movable Feast’ like Hemingway. Crazy guy. Really batty. But he had a nice place for me to sleep wherever I went so I wasn’t all alone. Anyway, one night he goes about his business, calling a meeting—” Thomas leaned over to avoid a kick that wasn’t completely intended to connect with his head, but also not completely meant to miss him either. “—and I tell myself I will not sleep through this one. He’d gotten mad, Pastor Davidson did, in the past ‘cause I always passed out and didn’t wake up for our days of service or our community outreach.”

“Wait… Pastor Davidson? You don’t… Tell me you don’t mean _Gilroy_ Davidson?”

“Yeah, I think that’s what he was. But he called this meeting… My ass slept through the whole damned thing. Good thing! Good thing I did. Apparently he went all Jim Jones and Jonestown Massacred them all. Best time ever to sleep through a meal, I think. I woke up and everybody was just dead. He was long gone, too, so I just...walked away before the authorities could show up and pin it on me. Churches are weird, man. But you’re an angel, right? You know the good from the bad?”

“I… I should certainly hope so,” Aziraphale said, trying to follow along with the angel who was instructing their drills while also aware that many had eavesdropped and recognized the tale of horror about his own son. Apparently Cass hadn’t made Thomas privy to that little detail about her brother.

As it was, Cass was training with the other Virtues and Amadeus at the moment—someplace not so physically demanding.

“I think I’m going to take a nap. Keep an eye out for Sandalphon, ey?”

“No! I shall not! Stand up and do your work like the rest of us. It is our _duty._ Otherwise, you may as well be down there with _Them!”_

“Ugh, they wouldn’t let me sleep either. What’s with all you people? Always moving, always working. Take it easy. Enjoy life. Take a breather. Chill out. Slow your flow.”

“Slow my flow?”

“Take a rest. Smell the roses.”

“You will not tempt me with your ceaseless chatter. Now get up and learn to at least _defend_ yourself.”

Thomas groaned and stood up, copying the drills as best he could while simultaneously looking like he was about to fall asleep on his feet. Aziraphale would certainly not like him at all for a son-in-law.

“But what _would_ it take to get a bite around here?” He asked after an hour of free period before the next set of drills. Cass was with him again, of course, and Amadeus who looked less than pleased to hear the continued mention of food. Sleep and food, that was all this Sin cared about!

“You don’t need any!” Aziraphale, feeling very much as if he were arguing with a child—or Crowley for that matter… The sudden realization nearly summoned tears to his eyes. 

“But I would like some! It’s so dull up here. How do they expect us to put forth our best effort with no incentive?”

“The incentive is that you get to stay alive!” Aziraphale argued.

“We’re going to stay alive anyway. That’s what we were made for. We’re going to outlive the humans, and we’re going to outlive most of you. That’s why we’re _made.”_

“And who in the world told you that?” Amadeus asked.

“The HBIC. When She beamed me up.”

“HBIC?” Aziraphale echoed. 

“You don’t want to know what that means, Papa. I think you might explode again,” Cass said, smiling ever so sweetly. Aziraphale felt he really did want to know, but assumed she was probably correct. 

“You mean to say, you spoke with _Her_ directly?”

“Yeah. Doesn’t everybody anymore? Not like I’m special.”

“And She just told you Her plan—in great detail?”

“No. No, not at all like that. I just asked what She wanted me to do and She told me and I asked Her why and She told me. And I asked Her if I was going to die, because I’m not going to lie to you—that shit’s scary when you’ve lived as long as me. Told it to Her, just like that, and She laughed and promised I wouldn’t. She said something like, ‘You were made to survive, long past humans and demons and angels. You will survive to see many new things.’ Real magnanimous. I like Her.”

“I should rather hope so! You are in _Her_ realm!”

“Isn’t he great, Papa?” Cass asked, beaming at him. “I think Dada will get a kick out of him when they meet. Only five more days ‘til we get to go! I bet Dada is waiting for us.”

“Please do exercise caution,” Aziraphale warned. “I don’t want you rushing up to him just to find that he’s been forced to switch corporations with someone else or that he’s bait for some sort of trap.”

“Dada wouldn’t let himself be used as bait,” Amadeus said.

“You would be surprised at what Hell can make even the proudest of demons do,” Aziraphale cautioned. “Please just let me be the one to approach him first. Whether you’re immortal beyond Heaven and Hell or not, I don’t want to see you hurt.”

“What’s he look like, again? That way I can steer clear of the whole mess,” Thomas asked, earning a laugh from Cassandra who then hugged him for no reason Aziraphale could justify. 

She had better not be in love with him… She really, really had better not.

( ) ( ) ( )

Crowley could not remember being so disoriented, so confused or hurt or downright _frightened,_ except for perhaps when he first Fell. As soon as he and the forces of Hell arrived on the Earth, it appeared the war had long since been raging without them.

Souls were plummeting down from heavens in blackened, smoky beams—souls were being pulled up in bright, white luminescent tunnels. Bombs were going off and bullets were tearing across the space, controlled by humans frightened out of their minds—humans who couldn’t understand what they were fighting against. 

It was just like he’d imagined, all those years upon years ago. The big one… All of them versus the humans.

For what it was worth, it was hard to have that realization at all when he was being shot at—when he was being grabbed and yanked and shoved by other demons.

Then, all at once, his daughter’s arms were around him—her wings around him like a shield. 

“Dada, please—please listen to me. You have to go and find Papa. You _have_ to. He can keep you safe.”

“I-I have to keep you with me. Annie, you have to stay by me. I can protect you—”

“Dada, I can’t. I’m so sorry, but I can’t. I have to find Beelzebub—”

“He can’t save you!”

“I have to, Dada, please! Please, go and find Papa. Know that I love you—we’ll meet again. I promise. But you have to go. Go now. Okay? I love you,” she said, punctuating her sentence with a firm, tearful kiss on his cheek. “You have to go. Please stay safe!”

He tried to hold onto her, to make her stay put beside him, but the next thing he knew, she’d morphed into a bird and had taken flight—shooting straight up into the sky and disappearing into the thick black cloud of smoke. Some demon or other shouted ‘coward’ after her, but immediately took two human bullets through his neck which distracted him.

Crowley looked around for Constantine, noting a large black creature slinking off the edge of the battlefield and down into the rubble of the city. It was Old Istanbul, Crowley realized, the very place Connie had been trying to set up a church. Perhaps he was going back to it, going to find his followers. 

Around him, the demons began to transform into their true selves—a swarm of maggots here, a flurry of bats there. Crowley, for what it was worth, bared his wings and surveyed the land one more time, his useless heart pounding with fear in his chest. 

His plans to get his whole family in one place was dwindling rapidly, but at least Annie and Connie had enough sense to remove themselves from the battlefield. 

He looked past the humans and their rain of bullets and saw a thick barrier of glowing white across the desecrated land. Heaven’s soldiers… The angels.

And, among them, towering over them all at a height that very nearly reached the clouds—an entity of swirling energy and light, like the very cosmos trapped in the somewhat angelic form with blue and gold wings of flickering holy fire. God. 

Crowley dropped his gaze immediately, almost collapsing to his knees. It was overwhelming to stand before Her—the creator of everything—even from this far away. Even among the throng of demons She Herself had cast out. 

Had he any right to look upon Her? Had he any right to think of Her at all when She had Felled him? She sent him downward. What would She do to him if he so much as tried to get close? Even if it was just to see his children? His _husband?_

But that was just it, wasn’t it? None of it was his. They were Hers. Every last thing he had, was truly Her possession. 

_Her_ angel; _Her_ children.

All around him, the demons had started tearing the humans apart. Some had reached the barrier of angels in the distance, but most were going for the easy targets—the mortals who died after only a single blow.

They didn’t _deserve_ this. They didn’t deserve to die like this—even if they were the damned souls God didn’t want.

But who was he to question Her? If he went asking questions now… Oh, God, how much further did She intend to make him fall?

Crowley tried again to look at Her radiance, but found that it burned his eyes. Aziraphale was somewhere over there—somewhere on the front lines just like he was. He had to find him. He had to go…

Overhead, he hard a shrill call of a bird and looked up to see Annie soaring past in the direction of the white barrier. She made it half way, then sailed straight upwards, back into the smoke and disappeared. He had the sense that she was trying to guide him forward, make him run. 

There was a clear space for the moment—no demons blocking him, just rubble and carcasses and bullet shells. 

Go, he told himself. Go, because there’s not going to be another chance. 

So Crowley started to run. He focused only on what he could bear to see—the row of white growing steadily closer and closer as he ran. Bullets should probably have sliced through him. Maybe a missile or a grenade or a blast from a bomb. There was fire and heat and rubble, but he ran without stumbling—without slowing.

Aziraphale, he thought. Cassandra and Amadeus and _Aziraphale._

He got so close—so very, very close, and then a golden stave was pushed through his left arm, clearly meant for the center of his chest. He’d dodged just in time, but not quickly enough. The metal burned unbearably, some blessed artifact from an angel in Heaven.

The angel in question stood before him, snarling as he straightened himself—believing he had Crowley incapacitated with a single blow.

“Not so fast, demon!” The angel spat, a grotesque looking man with a beard and mustache so outlandish Crowley would never have even dared wear it as such, no matter how in-style it could have been at any point in time. (He really doubted it ever had been.)

“I’m looking for my children,” Crowley snarled, grabbing the stave where it pierced through him and yanking it out, despite how badly it burned his hands. By the end of it, they were as blackened as his arm and shoulder where Aziraphale had accidentally burned him with his radiance. 

“You’d do best to get back to your own side—pity you won’t have the time!” The angel tried to lunge for him, but Crowley turned serpent in an instant and slithered rapidly into the throng of angels, weaving in and out of their feet before morphing back to his humanoid shape, wings exposed unconsciously, as he searched for Aziraphale. 

All around him, angels were charging toward the force of demons—most paying him no mind as they rushed past. He was bloodied, he realized. He was wounded in countless places beyond the burns from the holy stave. He couldn’t make sense of the voices around him, of the gunshots or explosions. He tried screaming for Cassandra but couldn’t hear his own voice. He screamed for Amadeus, for Aziraphale—and could’ve sworn nothing came out.

He pushed his way deeper into the ranks of angels, another holy stave stabbing through him—through his leg this time, pinning him to the ground.

He fell to his knees, screaming as he tried to get his already charred hands to close around the golden spear. When it proved of no use, he bowed his head and settled for jerking against it, feeling the wound rip deeper through his corporeal form. 

Again, he screamed for Aziraphale, feeling the ground shake beneath him as the army marched past him. He didn’t dare lift his gaze—afraid his last sight would be that hideous angel and his awful facial hair. He had broken the stave free of the ground, but it was still wedged into his leg and he couldn’t force it out without use of his hands. He doubted it would do him any good now. His leg was slowly turning to ash which would lay claim to all of him.

Then, all at once, the spear was torn from him and tossed aside. When he opened his eyes, he was met with swirls of golden light in the shape of bare feet near where he lay.

He was unable to keep himself from looking upward then—his fear confirmed. He was knelt, wittingly or not, as a demon before God. The next thing he noticed, besides the towering form of light and endless life before him, was a flaming sword about to be brought down on his neck. 

He jerked away, knowing it was too little too late. His heart shattered, fearing it was Aziraphale—that sword was his, after all. He was so afraid his angel, the one love of his whole existence, was about to kill him as if he were just another enemy on the battlefield. He’d have to, wouldn’t he? As an agent of God? He would have no choice.

Crowley had just enough time to duck his head back down and brace for the agony—the end of everything.

He felt the heat so close to the back of his neck, and then it froze.

BE STILL!

It was a voice he hadn’t heard in so, so long—yet he remembered it as clearly as he did Aziraphale’s. The voice of his Creator. His God.

Assuming, of course, he even had a right to call Her his. 

GO FORTH FROM HERE. OUR ENEMIES ARE ELSEWHERE.

“Yes, my Lord!” Shouted the angel with the sword who ran off in some other direction.

Crowley stared up at the glowing entity before him—so many meters tall he couldn’t even see Her face. Suddenly, he realized he wasn’t meant to. No one was. It was asking for death to look upon the face of God, and he quickly bowed his head.

The Gospel of Gilroy Davis Davidson flashed through his brain. Serpent 9:9 or something, wasn’t it? Something about Repentance, something about collapsing before God and confessing to weakness and betrayal… Perhaps there was more to it than the ravings of a false prophet. Or maybe it was foolish to even consider it. 

What other choice did he have? Lay before Her on the battlefield and wait to be crushed or left behind, or at least try to earn some semblance of forgiveness—some compassion, at least, that he might see his husband and children again.

“M-My Lord,” he stammered, his tongue forking, reminding him of what he was. His skin shivered with black scales. “Please—Please forgive me. I’m sssss...” His words turned to hissing despite all his willpower, all his strength. She did not want to hear him speak. Crowley felt tears sting his eyes brutally. It wasn’t supposed to end this way, but what right did he think he had to speak to Her? She had cast him down. She had forsaken him… 

YOUR GESTURE SPEAKS BEYOND THE WILES OF WORDS. YOU HAVE FALLEN BEFORE ME. THE RANKS OF ANGELS IS NO PLACE FOR A DEMON TO FIND A FRIEND.

Crowley felt his heart drop further, his forehead pressing down into the dirt—more from misery than submission, though what other option did he have? His leg was ruined. He couldn’t run and he was slowly being forced into his true form—a grotesque thing made of scales and slime. 

JOY SHALL BE FOUND IN HEAVEN MORE SO FOR ONE SINNER WHO REPENTS THAN THE HOARDS OF THE JUST WHO FEEL NO NEED AND DO NOT REPENT. 

Again, Crowley tried to say he was sorry—tried to speak repentance, for any crime which came to mind. For the M25, for bombing a church, for seducing an angel. Anything. But his tongue would only form soft hisses that even God couldn’t possibly hear over all the noise.

So he pressed his face more into the dirt, his face more serpent than man—bloodied, blackened wings growing further and further out his back to their full length. The disgusting carcass of his once angelic soul, damned for all eternity. 

What right did he think he had—

YOU HAVE PLEASED ME. YOU HAVE DONE VERY WELL. MORTALS WHO HAVE LIVED BUT A HALF-CENTURY HAVE COMMITTED MORE SIN IN THEIR TIME THAN YOU IN SIX THOUSAND YEARS. WHAT OTHER DEMON COULD CLAIM SUCH AN HONOR?

As quickly as it plummeted, Crowley’s heart began to piece itself back together. He was starting to feel a warmth in his chest—something so familiar yet so old. Ancient. 

I WILL LET LOOSE YOUR TONGUE AND YOU MAY ASK ONE QUESTION. BUT...WHATEVER YOU ASK WILL DETERMINE IF I LET YOU PASS INTO OUR RANKS OR IF YOU WILL BE CAST BACK TO YOUR BRETHREN BELOW.

A question? She wanted him to ask a question after making him Fall for that same transgression? Was this a trap? A trick? Did She want him to stay silent and say ‘thy will be done’? 

ASK.

A bomb went off, followed by loud screams which had Crowley’s head back up from the ground—eyes scanning the haze of smoke and rubble for anyone he recognized. Anyone at all…

ASK ME YOUR QUESTION, FOR THE END IS NIGH.

“I… I just want to know where I can find Aziraphale,” Crowley said, tears falling in agonizing trails down his cheeks as he looked upward toward the unseeable face of the Almighty. “Wh-Where is my husband?”

God, for a moment, was silent, but a spark of red flashed through Her celestial form, getting caught and rippled by all the galaxies that swirled within Her. He almost felt afraid, but something inside him was quelled. He felt…

He felt _Her._ Her pleasure—Her joy.

Slowly, an arm extended from the side of Her body and She was pointing to the right. There, not even fifteen paces away, stood Aziraphale with his arms around their children—shielding them from rubble which rained on them from the blast of the bomb.

Crowley’s entire being lurched forward, eyes glued on Aziraphale as if seeing him for the first time. 

Before him, God had both Her arms extended in a gesture of welcome. A gesture of forgiveness. 

He felt it. Oh, God, for the first time in so, so long, he could _feel_ Her. 

RETURN TO ME, CROWLEY, AND I WILL RETURN TO YOU.

( ) ( ) ( )

Aziraphale felt the weight of another being strike him with a force so great in nearly toppled him over. His first thought was to resist, that he was being attacked and needed to fight back, but then a wave of glorious heat ran through him, a pulse that was all too familiar. The love of the Almighty, the aura of a fellow angel unmistakable once the surprise wore off. 

There were white wings wrapped around him and his children, pillowing them in softness and glowing radiance. 

He seriously had his doubts that he would have ever realized what was happening with the arms wrapping around him so protectively if not for his daughter and her small, tender voice.

“Oh, Dada. I knew you’d make it back to us. I knew it,” she said.

Aziraphale’s eyes went wide and, for a moment, all that existed was himself and the angel latching onto him. Long ringlets of dark red hair, so thick—so lush and soft and so impossibly close to him. His face was being kissed by all too familiar lips, his mouth claimed by this other angel he was too startled to kiss back. He held him, though. He let his arms fall from his children to clutch onto this other being which held him as if their very life depended on it.

“Oh, angel—my angel. Oh, thank God. Thank God, you’re alright. My angel.”

That voice… Crowley’s voice. 

Aziraphale sent a silent prayer upward, even though the Almighty was only a few meters away to his left, guiding Her forces forward. It was easier to ward off tears looking skyward, at any rate.

“Cass—oh, God! You look wonderful.” 

Suddenly, Crowley had moved on to their daughter, wrapping her up just as tightly as always in an embrace that threatened to break all her bones while she just smiled. He held her, praised her, then moved to Amadeus—doing much the same before falling back against Aziraphale. 

“What happened, my love?” Aziraphale asked, pressing a kiss to the corner of Crowley’s mouth. 

His eyes were a warm brown—no yellow, no gold, no long and slit pupils—not tattoo on the side of his face. He missed them, he realized, but it was still his love staring back at him so tenderly.

“I found you,” he said. “I was so afraid I wouldn’t—but I did. I have! Angel!” 

Aziraphale was trapped in another embrace and tried his best not to melt into it. He did, however, let his hand come to rest against one of Crowley’s white wings—stroking the feathers gently. They were so radiant, so fresh and silken. Crowley shuddered and then began crying into him, Aziraphale’s collar soaking up the tears even as Crowley seemed to catch himself and pull away.

“Oh, I’m sorry—sorry. You’re in white and I shouldn’t—” Crowley had wiped his face on his hands and was now staring down at his wet palms, streaked with clear tears and not blood. He rubbed his face and checked his palms again, then looked down and seemed to realize for the first time that he was dressed in the same white garb as Aziraphale and the other soldiers. He checked his wings then, ran his fingers through his hair then, staring at the length of it as he twisted locks of it between his fingers. “What’s—what’s happening to me?”

“You’ve Risen, Crowley,” Aziraphale said gently, smiling at his husband who started crying harder.

“Oh—Oh, but I look terrible in white. Oh, no,” he said, snuffling back his tears while trying to fake a grimace.

“It looks wonderful on you, Dada. Promise,” Cass said, hugging him and resting her head against his chest.

INDEED. IT DOES.

At the sound of her voice, Crowley fell to his knees, nearly tearing Aziraphale down with him—though the angel did bow himself as the Almighty neared them, towering high into the sky. 

“My Lord,” Aziraphale said, pulling his children down to bow beside him—feeling it was the right thing to do, though Amadeus resisted at first. 

AZIRAPHALE, RISE. 

He obeyed, though kept his head bowed submissively. Moments later, a flaming sword was being held before him. He took it carefully, making certain not to flourish it unnecessarily before the Almighty. 

DON’T BE SO QUICK TO GIVE IT AWAY THIS TIME. 

“Ah… Y-Yes, my Lord,” Aziraphale said, cheeks flushing in shame—instantly taken back to the day he had lied to God’s face, metaphorically of course, about the whereabouts of his sword.

REMEMBER, I’LL BE WATCHING.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know people really hate Risen!Crowley, but I like me some Risen Crowley. Hope you enjoy!


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk how you all feel about this barrage of updates but my work site has been super slow and I've basically been writing 8hrs/day. Sorry for the spaaaaam.

Beelzebub watched Antigone take flight from their place at the center of the battlefield. In a way, it felt as if part of their heart soared away with her. They hadn’t seen their child since Annie sent it above ground with Constantine. He returned empty-handed, claiming a beam of white light took him away.

Baby Dionysus, Raptured to Heaven. 

Probably the best place for him, Beelzebub had to admit. Anywhere was better than here among the gunshots and bombs and demons. Monsters writhed around them, angels flourished their holy weapons while demons brandished their cursed blades. 

To their left, an angel was being hacked to pieces by three demons and Wrath. Their white wings were beating uselessly against the ground and then stilled as Wrath, now a jackal, tore out their throat and sent a shower of golden ichor across the ground in a splatter.

Again, Beelzebub turned their eyes up toward the cloud of smoke where Annie had disappeared. Crowley had fled Hell’s side of the battlefield and had fallen down before God, a holy stave lodge through his leg. They lost sight of him then and wondered if God had granted him mercy.

She probably had…

Why would She not? Crowley was one of Her chosen ones. He’d given Her two Sins and two Virtues. She wouldn’t cast him back to Hell.

Beelzebub wondered darkly if She would extend the same courtesy to them—a moment later, Beelzebub shot a cursed arrow through the chest of an angel who wasn’t even looking to see it coming. 

It didn’t matter. This was war and they had their own side to support. If Hell lost, it wasn’t going to be because they betrayed Satan. If Heaven won, Beelzebub wasn’t about to be tortured by Satan for being a traitor. They’d come close enough to that already.

Satan had been there when God cast them out. Satan pulled them from the lake of sulfur and made them a prince. Satan approved their union to Annie—allowed them to live in virtual peace and have an offspring… 

Beelzebub slayed another angel, one who saw it coming this time and had failed to dodge it. 

Then, as the opposing sides clashed together and began to blend their forces, Beelzebub spotted Antigone standing tall at the Almighty’s side. Her red hair was blowing across her soot-smeared face, her velvet dress ripped and frayed. 

Had she been hurt? Who had dared hurt her? 

Beelzebub readied another arrow and aimed with their second sight at the angel closest to Antigone. If it was keeping her hostage, they would slaughter each and every one until she was free—even her father if she had to. 

“Beelz!” Annie’s voice resonated over the hoard of demons and angels. 

She held out her hand, gesturing for Beelzebub to come to her—as if she didn’t realize standing that close to God could wipe her husband off the plane of existence. 

Well, ex-husband. Beelzebub had no choice. Satan would have tortured them both. Beelzebub couldn’t bear to allow that to happen. To witness Annie hurt… To be made to torture her themselves. Beelzebub couldn’t. They didn’t want to defy Satan. They didn’t want to side with God.

They just wanted to be alone with Annie and their baby.

“Beelzebub, come! Hurry!” She was gesturing desperately and Beelzebub could feel something else calling to him—something louder, deeper, and far more...ancient. 

Whatever it was, Beelzebub fought against it, aiming their arrow and striking down another angel that got too close to their side of the field.

“Beelzebub, please! _Please come to me!_ Beelz!”

Two more angels met their demise by their cursed arrows. 

“Beelzebub, don’t hurt them! Please! Please, just come to me! She’ll _forgive_ you! We can _be together!”_

That deep, ancient voice called to them again and Beelzebub shook their head against it. 

She would _not_ get into their head. 

“Beelzebub! My love, just come to me! Please!” Annie was crying, tears of blood rushing down her face. God had the ability to take those acidic tears away, but She didn’t. She wasn’t merciful—She wasn’t good or gracious. She was _nothing._ “Beelzebub, please!” Annie cried, her voice shaking. “She’ll forgive you!”

“You’re a traitor!” Beelzebub screamed. “You pledged yourself to _me_ when we got married! You swore your soul to Satan! You can’t stand with Her!”

“She’ll _forgive_ us! Please! Beelzebub, please! My love! Come to me!”

Betrayal bubbled up in Beelzebub’s chest. Annie promised herself to them. Annie was supposed to be at _their_ side—or at least someplace safe. Not across the field, not on the opposing side calling to them in front of everyone, calling for them to betray Satan in front of everyone.

Beelzebub wasn’t _Crowley._ They didn’t cavort with angels. They didn’t marry themselves to the enemy. 

“Beelz!”

“Traitor! You’re an embarrassment to me!” Beelzebub shouted, feeling eyes on them—even as another bomb went off. 

They were shaken off their feet, a large piece of shrapnel cutting into their leg and slicing it all the way up to their hip. Their scream of pain echoed across the field, calling to Wrath who bounded over to them still in the form of a jackal. 

They thought for one foolish moment that their son was coming to their aid. His nose pressed to their wound as they slowly pulled out the chunk of metal and started to heal themselves. 

“Get up and fight,” Wrath growled, ripping at Beelzebub’s pant leg until they were back on their feet—wound still oozing dark blood as their concentration was drawn away from healing.

“Beelzebub, please! Please, come to me! We can get our son! _Please!”_

“Kill that treacherous bitch or I will, mother,” Wrath growled, his nose pressing threateningly against their leg. 

“Annie, get back here!” Beelzebub screamed, aiming their arrow—knowing they couldn’t free it. “Annie!”

“Mother, slaughter her! Bitch, you slaughter her or I will! I will! _I will!”_

Across the field, her wife was sobbing—face so saturated with blood it looked as if something had dumped it upon her. God had an arm extended behind her, as if trying to comfort or shield her—Beelzebub didn’t know which.

“Antigone, I will not ask again!” Beelzebub screamed, their voice breaking off into a demonic screech that, for a moment, called the attention of their army to them. “Get over here, _now!”_

“Beelz, please,” Annie sobbed, her voice inaudible over the gunshots as the last of the humans tried to ward off the hoard of demons who destroyed them.

Beelzebub stayed frozen, arrow poised—ready. Ready to strike. It wouldn’t even kill her if it struck, especially not when she stood at God’s side… It would look good to Hell if they let the arrow fly and pierce her through the chest.

But they couldn’t do it. 

Beelzebub couldn’t hurt her—not for a moment, not to prove a point. 

Wrath, it seemed, noticed that as well. 

Beelzebub had several more seconds to memorize their wife’s face, streaked in tears and despair. Then their son pounced upon them. They thought to transform, started to expand their wings of flies and rot—but it was too little, too late. 

Wrath’s teeth sank into their throat the same way they had with the angel. He shook his head and crunched down, snarling out words of hate as he ripped and tore and murdered—well, discorporated at any rate. 

Stars burst behind Beelzebub’s eyes. Full galaxies, really. They’d made stars at one point in time…

Beelzebub remembered stars that night at the beach, when Annie was drunk and went swimming in radioactive water simply for the excuse of taking off her clothes for them. They fell in love with her then… That night at the beach, that night in the South Downs.

Love.

Beelzebub had never thought in their entire existence after their Fall that they would ever feel it again.

( ) ( ) ( )

Annie screamed in horror, doubling over on herself a moment before rushing blindly forward. Her eyes were glued to Beelzebub, her wife, dragged down into the dirt by Wrath who was ripping at her throat. Angels tried to grab her, pull her back toward Heaven’s side—demons tried to stab her and several succeeded in cutting into her skin with their blackened blades. She felt the pain somewhere in her mind, but like the agonizing burning in her eyes, it all throbbed together beneath the piercing ache in her heart, beneath the panic which consumed her.

Wrath was still ripping into Beelzebub’s flesh, going for whatever he could reach while she did nothing to defend herself. That alone worried Annie more than anything. She had seen Beelzebub fight—she had seen her rip other demons apart.

Why didn’t she fight back now?

Annie shoved against Wrath’s body as hard as she could, shoving him off balance just enough to be able to put herself between the jackal and Beelzebub.

“You stupid bitch,” Wrath growled, his muzzle and teeth smeared with blood. “You were supposed to die a long time ago. Now look what you’ve done!” 

Before Annie could even speak, he lunged for her. She draped herself over Beelzebub’s motionless form, still shielding her even though she realized from the puddle of blackened blood around them that it was too late to do her any good. 

She felt his paws hit her back and slam her down further, but before she felt teeth, a burst of heat exploded around her—her vision, even buried in Beelzebub’s bloodied chest, turned white. 

Wrath was torn off of her and landed somewhere further back with a thud and a canine whimper of pain. Afraid it was a bomb, Annie covered her head, only to feel the heat move over her—as if stepping over her—and continue off in the direction she thought Wrath might be. Carefully, she lifted her head, staring through burning, bleary eyes toward a figure made of yellow flames, carrying a flaming sword. At first, she thought it was her Papa—she’d heard about his True Form in whispers Below. 

But her Papa didn’t have three sets of wings, let alone wings made of divine fire. She didn’t know who this was, but they made quick work of Wrath. One slash with the flaming sword and his entire body vanished in a burst of red flames followed by the all too familiar beam of white light that had been happening since the Rapture began. 

She stared after the towering angel made of fire as it made its way across the battlefield, deflecting cursed arrows and daggers thrust in its direction. Then, her focus returned to Beelzebub, laying motionless beneath her. Her watery blue eyes had turned black, her skin gray. There was no soul left inside her… No warmth, no light, no Beelzebub.

Wrath had slaughtered her, taken her away from Annie forever. God wasn’t going to give her a new body, not when she refused to lay down her weapon and come to Her side. 

Annie didn’t have long to mourn before her arms were being grabbed and she was hoisted up from behind. She started to resist, twisting violently in her attacker’s grasp until she realized she heard her angel father’s voice—until she realized it was her Papa pulling her into his arms.

“It’s alright! Annie, it’ll be alright. I’ve got you—you’re alright.” He was hugging her then, smoothing his hand over her tangled mess of hair as she sobbed into his shoulder. “She isn’t gone. I promise. It’s just a body. She wasn’t slain in her true form and Wrath doesn’t carry a holy radiance that can destroy her. She isn’t gone, I promise.”

“Where’s Dada?” Annie asked, trying to force the thought of Beelzebub’s eternally damned soul trapped in Hell with no one to approve a new body for her. She wasn’t supposed to even be on the front lines. She was supposed to come up in the third wave with Dagon and Satan. Preparations hadn’t been made for her yet…

“Your father? He...” Aziraphale looked over toward the towering angel of fire. Annie looked at it as well, her heart somehow managing to sink and soar all at once. 

She knew he’d do it. She knew he’d make the right choice, but she’d never imagined it would play out quite like this.

“Where are Amadeus and Cass? Where’s Constantine?” She asked, searching her father’s face for any signs of pain or loss—anything that would tell her they’d been wounded.

“Amadeus went with the Almighty,” he said, gesturing back toward God and the force of angels closing in on the dwindling number of demons. “Cass… She—I don’t know where she went, but I know she is safe. She’s safe, Annie. We’re all safe. Stay with me now, alright?”

She nodded, then looked back toward her other father. Could she still call him her serpent father? If he willed it, would he still turn into a snake? Or was he now some sort of phoenix, a bird just like herself? Or was he nothing at all, the way her angel father was?

“What about Dada?” She asked.

“Let him be, I think. He’s going to find Constantine.”

“But, Papa, we have to find him too! We need to stay together!”

“Let your father take care of Constantine. You and I will stay together for now. We’ll go back to Amadeus and look for your sister.”

“Papa, we can’t just leave Connie. The forces of Hell will _kill_ him. We were sent up here to die—”

“Antigone, you can’t die—neither of you can ever actually die. He’ll be fine.” Her father tried to pull her back toward the Almighty and the ranks of the angels, the battlefield growing louder with the screams of demons who were succumbing, mostly, to her Dada’s holy vengeance. Annie resisted him, breaking free and barely choking out an apology before she sprinted as fast as she could—away from Beelzebub’s already rotting corpse, away from her devastated Papa. He screamed after her, calling her name over and over as she ran until she took flight—soaring through the cloud of black smoke until she found a mass of humans all clustered together in a crater of rubble. 

She had thought they’d all died in the bombings. They really had no reason to be exposed, to stand in an easily-targeted group. Didn’t the realize the danger? Or did they no longer care?

At their center, two people were stood atop a large concrete slab, the wall of some former building perhaps. Antigone ducked lower and landed—in her mortal form—before them, a few paces back from the wall.

It was Constantine up there, delivering gospel to the crowd of humans who gasped and awed at Annie’s miraculous transformation before them. At his side was Cassandra, holding his hand and looking down at the people in pity and love. 

Antigone wanted to call to her, to tell her they had to leave—that it wasn’t safe here, especially with Constantine doing Hell’s work in some desperate attempt to reclaim his awful throne.

She opened her mouth to scream to her, but then closed it as Cass shook her head and smiled.

Connie was preaching his usual gospel—or, rather, he _was,_ but instead of calling for the congregation to worship him, to put their faith in him, their savior, he told them to call to God. He told them God was here and watching, that God would grant forgiveness to all who repent—all who promise to leave their life of sin and live on in Her kingdom eternally. 

The people were crying, they were speaking confessions, apologies, and pleas. They waved their hands skyward, as though they couldn’t see the Almighty among them, just over the hill battling demons.

They had their eyes fixed on the Heavens or on Constantine—as if he were a true prophet of God…

And perhaps, when holding Cassandra’s hand—when Greed and Charity combined—he was. He couldn’t think of himself when he touched her, no one could. He could think only of others, of what they needed and craved. He used his charisma and charm to bring them to God… He simply had to change his scripture from “So sayeth Gilroy Davis Davidson” to “So sayeth the Lord.” 

( ) ( ) ( )

Aziraphale felt pulled in so many directions, it was a miracle he didn’t discorporate. He was sad and frightened and _angry._ He couldn’t find his children, he couldn’t coax Crowley out of destroying every demon he came in contact with as he marched around the battlefield—no doubt getting revenge on every one who had ever wronged him Down There. He didn’t know or didn’t comprehend that their daughter had witnessed the slaying of her wife—he merely saw Annie rush toward her and followed. He had ripped the flaming sword from Aziraphale’s hand and had, in an instant, been swallowed up by its holy fire. Aziraphale had been terrified that it would discorporate him, or destroy him—or that the Almighty would strike him down for stealing it after She had _just_ given it back to Aziraphale. But nothing happened after that. He had grown three sets of wings, all made of holy fire, and had slaughtered Wrath before he could sink his teeth into their daughter and finished what he’d started nearly a century ago.

He hoped, when this was all over, Crowley would remember how to turn back to his regular form—even if it had brown eyes and white wings and wasn’t quite what Aziraphale remembered. 

For now, Aziraphale tried to fight at the Almighty’s side, but the Lord Herself did not strike anyone down. She seemed to just be bringing Her forces in deeper to the battlefield, Her arms out in a gesture like an offer to embrace. She was waiting for something… Aziraphale had a terrible feeling he knew exactly what, and was honestly dreading that he was right. She wouldn’t go to battle with the demons Herself—but She would battle Satan to reclaim the Earth. If She even _wanted_ to reclaim it. 

He couldn’t know the mind of God, he could only trust in Her.

And right now, that just left him feeling more frightened and helpless. 

After failing to call Amadeus away from Her side, Aziraphale turned his focus back to the direction which Annie had fled. He was meant to be a warrior, but without his flaming sword, he was a sitting duck on this battlefield. He would leave the fight to Crowley who seemed to take great pleasure in it and go find his children. Perhaps Constantine might have something in his twisted soul that could bring Crowley back down.

Over the hill, he found three of his children standing at the center of a crowd of humans. Constantine was preaching to them and Cass was clutching onto his hand. Annie was before them, staring up at her brother on his perch of rubble. 

The moment Aziraphale noticed him, it seemed the demons did too. 

A second wave had arrived, bursting up through the dirt. They didn’t quite materialize in the middle of the crowd, but close enough to it that some humans bolted. Annie shot hergaze to the left, seemed to spot someone she recognized and then began calling to her brother to come down—come down and run.

To Aziraphale, these monsters all looked the same—all rotting carcasses with slime or maggots writhing all over them. He had never seen Crowley in any form besides his serpent and wondered, darkly, if he’d looked like this too underneath it all—a festering, decaying chunk of forsaken, cast-out flesh and bone. 

To think the other demons were _proud_ of this—proud to look like this. Proud enough of it to go to war to stay that way and prolong their hideous existence.

“He’s betrayed us! Traitor! Traitor!” Demons began shouting, all led by Hastur—a swarm of writhing maggots.

Some humans took notice of him, others continued to clasp their hands in front of them and plead up at the sky. 

Aziraphale watched, helpless, as one of the demons’ cursed arrows spun through the air and struck Constantine through the arm. He grunted in pain and faltered, but Cassandra merely tightened her grip on his hand to keep him upright and he continued to preach. 

Annie screamed at him to get down, screamed for Cass to get down from the wall, but they didn’t listen. Another arrow and then a third stuck him through the back and shoulder—but other than to hiss in pain, Constantine did not cease his proclamations. 

“Call to the Lord, my friends! Call unto God—your one, true God! Send your love to the Almighty, so that you may be shown forgiveness on this day of reckoning!” He called and called and called out to them as they prayed and sent their words to God, to the Almighty who listened and offered forgiveness for those who must have been genuine in their penance. That familiar white light closed around some of them—vanishing them from the congregation. “See, my brothers! See, my sisters! Behold!”

“Kill that treacherous rat!” The demons screamed. Aziraphale looked behind him at the ever-expanding wall of demons and their rain of cursed arrows and poorly-aimed spears.

“Behold the divine forgiveness of the Lord! Our one true Lord!” 

Antigone was still screaming for him to get down from the wall while arrows shot through him, miraculous numbers of them missing Cassandra who stood perfectly still, just clutching his hand while he preached until, at last, he preached no more and started to fall. Cassandra freed his hand before he could yank her down with him, and then she was gone. Vanished, into thin air—no white light or fanfare. It was as if she had never been there at all. 

The congregation swarmed toward Constantine who lay in Antigone’s arms, lifeless as she wept over him. Aziraphale hurried toward them, feeling too large for skin—feeling hurt and angry and so sorrowful. He wanted to scream or to cry—not sure if over Constantine or Cassandra. By the time he reached Annie, the demons had started to flood the crater where the humans had gathered. The Almighty and Her white light had taken a few more of the souls—quite a few more—and left only a handful for the demons to slay. 

“Annie, we have to move!” Aziraphale said, trying to pry her away from Constantine as the swarm of demons closed rapidly in. 

“I can’t leave him here! Papa, he’s still alive!” She was weeping, but spoke true. Constantine was coughing up blood, his eyes frantically searching the sky for something while he choked out little sounds. “We can’t leave him—Papa, please! Do something! Help him! We can’t just leave him here to die!” 

Aziraphale placed his hand over one of the arrows, meaning to pull it out and try to heal him, but as soon as he made contact, his skin blackened anywhere it touched the weapon. He looked around at the demons, realizing far too suddenly that they were out of time. There was no time left. The demons had hacked away the last of the humans and were circling around them, looking vicious and hungry. 

“Annie, go! You must!” Aziraphale called. She could still get away—or at least try. She was a bird. She could hide in the clouds of smoke and they would have little chance of harming her. 

But she wouldn’t leave Constantine. Aziraphale did all he could and fell over her head to cover her.

( ) ( ) ( )

For Crowley, things felt very different now—and not just because he’d let his rage turn to fire on his skin. Though he would say, for the first time while walking Earth, he finally felt warm enough without needing to seek out someone else’s body heat. Specifically meaning Aziraphale’s. 

Didn’t mean he didn’t want it though.

He’d lost sight of his husband after he’d stolen his sword and unleashed his rage on the force of demons and that idiot Wrath who tried to kill his daughter for a third time now. Hopefully getting hacked to pieces with the holy sword put an end to him for good. After all, only a demon would kill its own mother as Wrath had.

Crowley had finished driving back the forces of demons when the earth before him split open with a rush of heat that somehow overwhelmed his holy flames and extinguished them. He was back to his humanoid shape without meaning to be, and was thankful he was—for the moment—by himself among demon corpses on the battlefield to gather his bearings. He doubted he could’ve swung the blade and make it count if he’d needed to after remembering that yes, white was apparently now his color and he was going to have to learn how to get used to it.

He really didn’t like it. Didn’t suit him at all. 

But when he looked to his right and saw the Almighty towering high before the crevice opening up in the ground, he thought he would rather be wearing white and on Her side than over there with the demons. A second wave of them burst out of the canyon which had formed and were met with the sudden appearance of a new hoard of angels, freshly beamed down from Heaven like meteorites. Any demon who got close to their tails of fire were vaporized, and that was enough to push them back for a moment or two.

Crowley looked at his flaming sword a moment, then realized for the first time with any weight or significance that he’d taken it from Aziraphale and left him unarmed. 

His head shot back and forth, scanning the front lines and the droves of angels behind him, trying to feel Aziraphale’s presence, trying to catch sight of his halo of golden curls. 

He couldn’t find him. 

He really didn’t like that. He couldn’t find him and he couldn’t find Cass or Connie or Annie. 

Amadeus was, at one moment standing beside the Almighty. Then he was gone in the blink of an eye as if he hadn’t been there at all. She had popped him out of existence and hopefully put him somewhere safe. Crowley had to trust that She put him someplace safe. 

He turned from Her and started running the direction Connie had gone when the war first started—over the hill and down into the wreckage of the city. His heart shattered to feel that familiar presence of his angel there—his angel above all others. He was down there, trapped in the center of a hoard of demons with no weapon to defend himself. Hastur was there… The disgusting heap of maggots feasting on the flesh of fallen humans. 

And then Crowley realized Annie was there, too, being covered up by Aziraphale who could do nothing to protect her expect glow with his holy radiance. Even if he transformed into his angelic form now, it wouldn’t be enough to take out all of them. Maybe a few if they got too close.

Crowley couldn’t allow those demons the chance to stick one of those cursed daggers into his husband. He wouldn’t heal from it—not ever. The wound, even if not lethal, would infect his immortal soul and fester, painfully, for all eternity. He was _not_ going to let that happen.

Again, he felt that all-consuming fury take over him—his skin splitting with fire as he grew impossibly taller, wider, and more powerful. 

“Hastur!” He screamed, calling the attention of not just the maggot, but his small army as well. For a moment, they dumbly stared off at him, and a moment was all he needed. 

He shouted and Aziraphale revealed his true form—exploding in a flash of white light which annihilated at least eight of the demons and gave Antigone the chance to morph into her bird and shoot skyward, hiding her gray feathers in the black smoke overhead. 

Demons tried to attack him, but Aziraphale floated skyward as well—this divine, glowing sphere of all-seeing eyes and arms and many terrifying things, Crowley had to admit. 

Hastur, however, paid Aziraphale little mind. His focus and the focus of his maggots’ swarming bodies, was trained on Crowley. It’s vaguely humanoid shape seemed to spit, at great force, a spear toward Crowley who hacked it in half with his flaming sword. 

“You can’t kill me, Hastur,” Crowley said, even if it were just to attract all eyes to him—giving Aziraphale more time to hover his foolish self out of the corner he’d trapped himself in. He was surely taking his dear sweet time. Crowley seriously was about to yell, with all his so newly reestablished divine fury “get a wiggle on, you bloody idiot” and see if that got Aziraphale to move any quicker. A sense of urgency would be nice. They were in the midst of a war, for God’s _honest_ sake!

“You don’t scare me, _Crawly,”_ Hastur sneered—his voice seeming to come from each and every maggot he commanded. “We’ll kill you just as easily as we killed your son.”

Crowley knew it was a trap, but he couldn’t help it. He looked to where Aziraphale was still hovering and saw Constantine’s body laying there in a bloodied heap, stuck through with cursed arrows. How many times had he been slaughtered in Hell, Crowley wondered. How many bodies had he been reassigned by Hell while they tortured him for bringing an angel into their midst? 

He wasn’t dead. No… Couldn’t _really_ be. 

Crowley had all but a moment to acknowledge that Hastur was now close enough to him to cover him in a million cursed maggots which would cover and consume his divine flesh in a matter a minutes if he let them. The first few thousand would die on contact, but the layer of their corpses on his skin would block out his flames until the had torn the flesh from his body. He actually felt a couple of them on him before Aziraphale was there—shoving him aside and snatching the flaming sword from his hand.

“Thank you—that’s mine,” he said, hacking off the maggot-made arm that had been extending in Crowley’s direction. A few hundred maggots died, but the rest squirmed on the ground before reconnecting to Hastur’s writhing body. 

Crowley thought to look for a weapon, but settled instead for the method he’d employed last time—walking through and crushing demons that got under foot with his holy flames. He felt a bit like Godzilla, he did, just walking through and cutting people down—if you had to think of demons as people. 

Annie certainly did, but Crowley didn’t want to dwell on that. 

He annihilated Hastur’s army with only a small struggle, taking a few arrows and a dagger into his legs and ankles which hurt, quite literally, like the devil. They would hurt forever, but it hardly mattered. War wasn’t war without battle scars to show for it.

For what it was worth, Aziraphale seemed to be having just as much fun attacking Hastur—cutting off his not-so-body body parts and watching them wiggle back into the main swarm to form another arm, another hand, another leg—just to cut them off again. 

Crowley had the thought that they could go on for decades like this. He bet Beelzebub and Hastur used to do that all the time—trying to see who was more powerful. Cut off an arm, it grows right back. Some maggots might die, but you’d never quite get down to the core—because there wasn’t one. Hastur wasn’t a man in a maggot costume. He was a swarm of maggots, he was every maggot and none of them. To kill him, you had to kill them all at once.

It was impossible. No angel or even a team of them could manage it. 

God could, Crowley thought. Not that She would distract Herself from the front line to witness this spectacle, but She could if She wanted. 

This awful scene could have gone on for twenty years already with no real blows exchanged—probably would have—if Dagon didn’t appear over the hill and call to Hastur.

“He’s coming! Leave them for now! _He’s_ on his way!” She screamed, her true form showing and reeking of rotted fish and saltwater. Crowley hoped Annie didn’t come by to see her any time soon. Though he doubted they would all still be the happy thruple they once had been once this was all over.

It was hard to think of it that way, Crowley realized. It was hard to think that this was the end of everything. Everything.

Nothing would ever go back the way it had been before, not even a little bit. At least, he thought, Aziraphale would still be at his side if they both made it out.

It would be hard now that _he_ had come. There was no Adam Young to banish him back to Hell this time. Only God who was just as powerful as the Devil.


	26. Chapter 26

With Hastur gone, squirming up the hill and back into his solid body, Crowley could turn his focus back to his son. He tried to remove the arrows from his back and his throat, but anything he touched corroded his flesh. It didn’t matter anyway, he realized with a heavy heart. His son’s body was dead—his soul on another plane. Hopefully Heaven; probably Hell. 

He looked back toward Aziraphale who stood now as a man at the top of the hill, Annie at his side and clutching his arm. Crowley made his way to join them, shrinking back down into his human form and wrapping his arms around his daughter. She flinched, as if she didn’t recognize him— 

Well, Crowley guessed she probably wouldn’t. This white robe was really off-putting. 

“Dada, you scared me!” She said, her eyes softening as he wiped away her tears with his thumb. “I knew you’d be okay. Thank God.” She hugged him tightly, then took a good moment or two to scrunch her fingers in the tight curls of his newly long hair. 

“My dear… Things are not...not looking well at all,” Aziraphale said, his hands clasped together in front of him—being rubbed together anxiously. 

Crowley moved to be closer to him, wrapping an arm around him as well while keeping Annie in his grasp. Before them on the field, angels and demons were collapsing from wounds—pouring ichor and blood at the feet of their leaders who had squared up against each other.

The Devil, in his massive, horned glory crouched like a gargoyle, clutching a blackened, obsidian spear that extended far into the sky. The Almighty was so close to him that a swing of that weapon could stab through Her with little effort if Satan willed it, standing up straight and so impossibly tall that no one, not even a giant like the Devil, could gaze upon her face. 

They were speaking, God and the Devil, in a language Crowley couldn’t even begin to comprehend. When She spoke, the air seemed to tremble and ripple. He felt his soul leap at the sound of it. And then, when Satan replied to Her, the whole Earth shook. The sky blackened as if it were nightfall. 

Crowley held his husband and daughter closer to him, opening his wings behind him subconsciously as a shield while looking around for the others—half expecting Constantine to come walking up out of the rubble, and a little bit devastated when he did not.

God spoke something like a call to action, and suddenly produced Her own flaming sword from the palm of Her giant hand. The angels and demons at their feet raged against one another and Crowley feared Aziraphale might try to join them. He had no intention of joining them himself. Did that make them deserters in need of punishment?—Or had they already served their purpose?

Crowley knew better than to ask out loud, that was for damn sure.

When Aziraphale stayed put, Crowley did as well, watching the spectacle play out as if in slow motion. The Earth cracked open with another hoard of demons, angels descended from Heaven and crashed into the ground, giving off explosions of holy flames. 

God lifted Her sword; Satan readied his spear.

All at once, it felt like the oxygen in the air vanished—the carbon, the hydrogen, the helium, everything. It felt like everything that made the Earth whole and natural and _alive_ was sucked out of existence. There was an explosion of white light which tore through Crowley’s eyes so quickly, so painfully, all he could do was scream and pull the small remains of his family down to the ground to shield them—shield their heads and their eyes with his feathers. He could feel flames lashing at him, could feel the crushing weight of the world collapsing and ripping. He felt the pain and horror and devastation of the remaining humans as each and every one felt their existence reach an end—unable to understand why, unable to even ask. 

Crowley found himself wrapping around his husband, wrapping around his daughter, in any way that he could—with limbs, with feathers, with hope and with love. They couldn’t communicate, there was no atmosphere to let their human-shaped bodies form words. All he could do was hold them, relish the feeling of their hands clutching onto him, fearing that it was the last time they would ever be so close. 

Fearing he would never get to hold Cassandra or Amadeus or poor Constantine again… 

Everything was being ripped away, ripped away _from him,_ and it was only a moment or two more before he could no longer feel Aziraphale or Annie...or anything at all.

He couldn’t feel anything, but it was okay. He didn’t exist in the kind of capacity that would take notice.

( ) ( ) ( )

The humans looked different now.

Perhaps that was the wrong word. Maybe they’re not exactly humans at all this time.

Aziraphale stretched out on the grass, the thick, green leaves prickling at his bare legs. This grass so much more vibrant than Eden’s had ever been—probably because every now and then Crowley would start growling at it to “grow better!” 

Some great, wonderful, merciful, naive fool in Heaven put him in charge of the plant life. 

Preserve it this time, She said. 

The trees were taller, their leaves bigger and glossier. The flowers were absolutely remarkable and if ever Aziraphale slept or got so lost in thought he forsook the use of his eyes, he would come round to find little bushels of them in his lap or by his head. Cassandra fluttered around with crowns of them on her head (at least for an hour or two before she bestowed them upon some of the humans—many of whom passed them on to someone else). 

“Do you think it’s getting hotter?” Crowley asked, fanning himself with one of the large leaves. Cassandra hurried past him, chasing one of the human-ish toddlers who giggled and ran from her. She brushed Crowley’s arm, covered the slightest bit by his formerly white robe (he had stained it a horrid, murky gray brown with mud not long after they’d arrived), and Crowley began fanning Aziraphale instead. “It’s definitely getting hotter.”

“I do believe it’s summer again,” Aziraphale said. “You used to love astrology. Don’t you pay attention to the stars?”

“Eh… Here and there. I’ve been busy. Those...those pink things over there keep trying to wilt. Everywhere I plant them they just... _bloop_ and they’re dead.” He made a grandiose gesture with his arms and then dropped them into his lap. 

“Well don’t be too hard on them. You remember what She did last time you tried to kill one of Her plants.”

He had tried to shred some fern-like plant (could it be said that Aziraphale was firm in his belief that God was expecting Crowley to name Her vegetation and he, for whatever reason, had neglected to in the decades they’d been here) and awoke from a lazy little nap a week later to find them growing all over his body. It took weeks to pluck them all out of his pores and he had to swear on his feathers not to do it again before the plants quit growing back on his flesh.

“Well, maybe She should quit making them so wilty,” Crowley muttered. Aziraphale slapped his leg.

Cassandra rushed past again and Crowley took up fanning Aziraphale with the leaf once more. 

“Do you think She’d be mad if I, er, harvested some berries, tried to miracle us up some wine with what we’ve got available?”

“Gluttony is a sin,” Aziraphale said, unwittingly turning his gaze to Annie who was far across their little clearing in the jungle, playing with a black-haired baby boy. He was so chubby, so happy and noisy and just a _joy_ to have in their new garden. Aziraphale would never forget how Annie had wailed with joy when they awoke in the new Eden with her baby safe in her arms. That joy was only the smallest bit tainted by the sorrow of having no Hellish prince to share the moment with.

Whether or not Hell really lost, Aziraphale didn’t know. He could never know, for that was not the will of God. Earth, his Earth, was gone to him. All the books, all the artwork and centuries of history, closed off to him. He’d tried, oh how he’d tried, to miracle for _Hamlet,_ for a copy of _The Collected Works of Oscar Wilde._ He received nothing upon nothing until the Lord spoke to him and asked him nicely to stop. He had all that he needed and he should not see fit to ask for more.

Then, just before the channel was closed, She added, “Perhaps, if you miss them so much, you’ll give someone the divine inspiration to create something reminiscent. What do you think?”

He, of course, praised Her and said it sounded like a wonderful idea.

He would certainly have to be patient, though. There was no way for them to write about distraught teens moping about their parents’ houses, contemplating life’s course, when the humans of this Eden were currently learning how to construct huts out of mud and straw. 

“Is that you saying no? You don’t want any?” Crowley asked.

“Any what? Wine?”

“Yeah. More for me, I guess.”

“I would be careful if I were you. Don’t want...anything bad to happen.” 

“What, don’t want me to Fall? I assumed you liked these new eyes.” Crowley had finally noticed his eyes had changed after washing his face in the nearby stream. “Can’t say I like them very much. Miss the old ones.”

“Miss the old ones!?”

“Yeah.”

“You _hated_ your eyes! Anytime you’d get upset it was ‘oh, let me cover these up,’ ‘thank goodness she doesn’t have my hideous eyes.’ Now you _miss_ them!?”

“They were more... _me.”_

“Oh, nonsense. Not this again. Soon you’ll be changing your name to...to _Crawford_ or something!”

“Crawford? Why in Heaven’s name do you want me to call myself Crawford?” 

They bickered back and forth for three days while wandering the garden, picking berries together only to realize they didn’t have a bucket or place to distill them. When they left the fruit alone to build themselves a vessel, the Sin of Pride, Delilah, snuck over and stole a handful which she mashed and used to paint her lips. 

One of the humans watched her and did the same, then hurried and showed her friends who did the same. One rubbed the berries around in her hands, making a paste, then made palm prints all over the white rock nearby. She did this until it looked somewhat like the pink flower blooming near it. 

With a little bit of a miracle using mud and tree bark (from a felled tree after trying to harvest from a live one had the telltale beam of the Almighty glowing on Crowley’s shoulder) and woven vines, the two angels had made a large bucket where they gathered up more berries, sharing some with the curious humans who seemed to like the color more so than the taste. 

Nightfall came again, and rather than going off to scare the poor vegetation, Crowley sat by the fire among the humans and the others. Constantine was laying as a panther, flicking his tail restlessly while licking at his paw. There were three little cubs crawling around him and a female panther wandering around by the treeline. She was just that, a panther, and had arrived with the cubs one day. For some reason she nuzzled up on Constantine in his humanoid shape and he had turned panther to appease her. 

There were panthers in the garden, secretary birds, jackals, sloths… Whatever the Sins represented, their animals were here, learning instincts from them. The Virtues, it turned out, had no other bodies to become, but their essence was far more potent here than on Earth. Their input in the new human’s lives was untainted, uninterrupted. 

The humans shared. The humans were kind. They were happy in their little tribe, even if Wrath stirred up trouble once in a while, even if Delilah tried to make the females fight for the attention of more suitable males. Annie, in the very early days, had noticed a sad little human sitting by himself near the stream, staring down toward a woman who was setting leaves in the water to watch them whisk away. Annie convinced him to set a flower blossom on the water and send it the woman’s way. She caught it, smiled at him, and now there was the first new human baby scampering around the camp. It wasn’t nearly as bad as Adam and Eve (though Crowley insisted on calling them that). For what it was worth, the baby was called Ilnaktu. The other humans seemed to like saying it and had decided to come up with names for themselves and each other. They had their own language worked out that Crowley and Aziraphale could speak—as could the Sins and Virtues—but most of the time the Old Earthers talked to each other in English. 

Later, much later, in new scripture, it would be called the Language of the Angels. 

At least they got some things right.

Cass was sitting by the fire, drying out flowers and leaves while one of the other virtues, a tiny little girl called Valerie, braided locks of her hair. Most of the Virtues spent their time near Amadeus or their contrasting Sin. Little Valerie, the poor little dove, was always drawn to Wrath who spent all of his time as a jackal. Aziraphale looked out for her, just as Cass and Amadeus did, but found that with Valerie, Wrath was gentle. He would even go so far as to lick her cheek and protect her from the panthers and birds. (She was terrified of birds for some reason. Annie claimed innocence in the whole thing.)

Amadeus and the virtues were helping the humans make food and, as always, brought his fathers a leafy plate that Aziraphale ate happily. Crowley, still so much like his old self, would have a taste and leave Aziraphale to have the rest.

“Papa, do you think we could find a way to make tea?”

“We have to allow them to make some things on their own,” Aziraphale said, feeling heat rise to his cheeks as ‘Deus eyed their bucket of fermenting berries. “That was his doing.”

“You can’t blame me! You helped make it. If he wants tea, he’ll have to teach them about tools and carving. In no time at all, they’ll be chiseling cups out of boulders.”

“Are there any plants that’ll be good for tea?” ‘Deus asked. 

“I’m sure there are,” Crowley said, glaring around and the shadowed plants as if to say ‘you will be.’ “Nothing here’s poisonous. That was demons’ doing on Earth.”

“Your doing!?”

“I had to cause trouble! It was supposed to make them sick. Didn’t know it’d kill them. Some of it was _Her_ too. She got tired of them eating everything, I think.” 

As it was, in this Eden, there were only plants to eat. There were no real prey animals and no fish in the stream. There were enough insects to pollinate and decompose, but the planet was still in its very early stages. Once in a while a new creature might show up, but nothing to be mistaken for food just yet. 

Aziraphale had a sad feeling Crowley missed the snakes. He hadn’t transformed since being Risen and Aziraphale was too afraid to ask him if he thought it possible. He himself missed the yellow eyes and little hiss in his voice… Missed his forked tongue sneaking into their kisses. Aziraphale kept it to himself though. He made up for their absence by paying dedicated attention to Crowley’s extra wings. 

Preening had always been special to them before and it was even more so now. Aziraphale had stopped plucking out his feathers in stress after a year in the new Eden. His feathers had grown back thick and glossy, and Crowley made a point to nestle into them the rare times the snuck off to their miracled hut—wherever they decided to put it. 

“I missed these,” Crowley said the first time he got to preen when all the feathers had returned. Aziraphale yearned for the hiss that was lacking in his voice even then. Crowley buried his face in them, nuzzled them, caressed them—preened for hours and hours. 

Most of the time, Crowley only showed one of his three sets of wings—seemingly self-conscious about his status. It had been archangels who tortured him all those years ago. Now he was one himself, if his wings were to speak for themselves. Archangels belonged in Heaven, but for some reason God had allowed him to stay on this new Earth with his family. His ever-expanding family.

The Sin of Sloth, Thomas, spent a lot of time with Antigone. They were probably lovers, though Aziraphale was lucky enough to have never caught them in the act. Annie made it clear that Thomas was no Beelzebub, but they were close. Closer than Thomas and Cass, though she was fond of him as well.

Aziraphale loved his children—loved children probably as much as his husband—but he didn’t want to see his children having any more children. They were becoming too much like...adults.

He might not want his children having children, but...there was still one Sin missing. One more baby that could potentially be born.

There were seven Virtues in the new Eden and only six of the Sins. Envy had never arrived. 

Crowley had made note of this one night when they were preening each other. It was his way of asking if Aziraphale wanted another, and Aziraphale had played dumb because he was nervous and afraid that the Almighty would be watching if they tried. It was too difficult to make an effort when one imagined the Almighty hovering over his shoulder. 

For the time being, Crowley had let the issue drop—though Aziraphale could tell he was anxiously watching Thomas and his daughters. 

“Are you ready for another six-thousand years of this, angel?” Crowley asked, his head suddenly coming to rest on Aziraphale’s shoulder as the angel tried to eat the last bites of his dinner. 

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Aziraphale said, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand as leaves made for terrible napkins. “Perhaps we’ll do it right this time.”

“What, you do the good thing and I do the bad one?” Crowley asked, chuckling—his breath puffing out on Aziraphale’s neck, raising the hair there until it stood on end and prickled.

“You had better not!” Aziraphale said, laughing and turning to place a kiss on Crowley’s lips. Crowley smiled against him, trying not to laugh so that he could savor the kiss. They existed together entirely in their own little moment, kissing and chuckling while the humans around them trickled off to their huts to sleep. 

( ) ( ) ( )

Antigone held her son while she watched her fathers disappear into their own little private moment. Her Dada had his wings out and she doubted he even noticed. The New Humans ogled them a moment or two, then hurried off to their own huts in pairs to recreate the scene together. For whatever reason, knowledge of each other’s bodies and basic reproduction weren’t so taboo in this New Eden. Perhaps the Almighty had finally decided to lighten up, though Annie had no idea what Her greater plan for all them were. 

Connie would go off and preach his gospel, and whenever he would try to twist it to his benefit, Cass would come sit beside him and hold his hand—bringing him back to the Lord. Wrath would be trying to temp the New Human men to fight him and little Valerie would come pet him until he calmed down and wandered off into the jungle. Thomas would nap for a day or two until Annie poked him awake or little Diligence, Malik, would shake him and ask for help with a task. Thomas would practically jump onto his feet and go.

For what it was worth, Annie didn’t need ‘Deus hanging around her side to curb her desires. These New Humans didn’t look quite right to her. They weren’t what she was used to finding desirable… She was sure in time she might—just as she’d gotten used to Dagon and the other demons in Hell and all their strange appendages. But for now, these New Humans just weren’t right. 

And she missed Beelzebub. 

Their son, Dionysus, was her spitting image, and more than comforting her, it just hurt. It was like looking at a tiny Beelz running around her feet, torturing her with her loss. She couldn’t look in his eyes without seeing Beelzebub, without seeing those eyes turn black with death and emptiness. 

She didn’t know the fate of the Old Earth, of the demons or humans who remained. Did Beelzebub’s soul get lost the vast expanse of the universe, or was she back inside a body wandering the wasteland Heaven left behind? Was she looking for Annie or had she moved on?

The last time they spoke, Beelzebub had been calling her a traitor. 

Antigone would never forget the sound of her voice, calling to her with so much pain and rage. 

“Am’an!” Dion called to her, using the New Human word that their baby called its mother. 

“Hm? What do you need? More fruit?” Annie asked, pulling her plate—a big, glossy leaf—closer to her, plucking out a tomato-like fruit and offering it to Dion.

“No, no! Am’an, look-see! Akahpt!” He was pointing toward the fire. Akahpt being the New Human word for ‘new.’

Annie looked up at the orange flames, saw that Connie and the panthers had gone, and so had Wrath. Delilah was grinding up flowers with some rocks near the fire pit, trying to make perfume oil. Thomas was still sleeping, the Virtues and Amadeus were all eating together. Her angel fathers were ruffling each other’s feathers in plain view of everyone. 

Oh… And there was something else creeping around toward the edge of the jungle. Annie could see their odd, shadowy form shifting around on the other side of the flames. It wasn’t a New Human—not tall enough and with too round a skull. Aside from Connie and Wrath, all the Sins that existed were accounted for around the campfire. 

All the Virtues were gathered together.

Who was that? An angel? It wasn’t like angels to keep their faces hidden. Whenever Sandalphon or one of the others dropped by, they made a whole show of it.

“Come here, Dion. Stay with Am’an.” She pulled him to her chest and slowly got to her feet, carrying him in her arms as she stepped closer to the fire, squinting to see the stranger who approached. Her movement caught ‘Deus’ attention and he turned his head to look as well. The Virtues all seemed alert and tittered to one another like a flock of little birds.

“Who the Hell are you?” Delilah snapped, looking out at the trees and the intruder.

(For what it was worth, the angels who were meant to be protecting Eden were wandering away with their bucket of would-be wine, unaware.)

“What’zzz it to you?” The person answered.

Annie had never, and would never again, in her existence felt so much shock and relief—such a flood of emotions—as she did then. She held Dion tighter, her eyes pricking with acidic tears as the figure stepped into the light. 

It didn’t look like Beelzebub, but Annie knew it was her. It had to be.

“Where did you come from?” Delilah asked, her tone arrogant and annoyed. “Where’ve you even been hiding? I’ve walked this place a hundred times over and never saw you.”

“It’zzzz none of your buzzzzinezz!” The newcomer growled before snatching away the leaf of food Delilah had sitting next to her.

“That’s mine!”

“It’zzzz mine now!”

“There’s more than enough to share! Come join us!” Cass called out, standing up from her seat among the Virtues. 

The newcomer stared at her, but kept the stolen leaf and carried it with her as she walked around the fire.

“Hey! I said that was mine!” Delilah snapped, getting to her feet. 

“You can have mine! I’m really not so hungry,” Cassandra offered. She tried to go to Delilah with her own leaf of food, but Amadeus stopped her.

When Delilah tried to snatch her food back from the newcomer, she ended up with one of the tomato-like fruits smashed against her cheek. 

“There. Now you look like the harlot you alwayzzz were. Don’t think I don’t remember you, zzzztupid girl.”

Delilah, who had given out a shriek of rage when the fruit smeared across her face, now stood in silence. 

“P-Prince Beelzebub? It… No, it can’t be! You lost—your side lost!”

“I don’t know anything about that,” the newcomer said, turning away from her and carrying her pilfered leaf to Antigone’s side of the flames. She stared at her a moment—the face so different, more sharp angles and defined features than the Beelzebub Annie remembered. But the eyes were the same watery blue-gray. “Well thizzzz izz hardly a warm welcome.”

“Where have you been?” Annie asked, a tear slicing its way down her cheek. She wiped it away quickly before it could splash onto their baby. 

“I don’t know,” the newcomer, the newly corporated Beelzebub, said, blinking slowly. “I was in the zztarz and then I wazz here. Zzzome big voizze told me I wazz to call myself Ba’al Zebub. I remember you,” she said, blinking before sitting down on the ground with her leaf in her lap. 

Annie stared down at her, then sank to her knees at her side. 

“It’z all very fuzzy,” she said, taking a bite of the fruit and sighing in pleasure. “I wazz told I am not to hurt the Creatures. Azzz long az I behave, I get to zztay. Shouldn’t be too hard, hm? Do you want?” She held out one of the tomatoes in offering. Annie tried to stammer out that she had her own plate. Without missing a beat, Beelzebub tacked on, “Is that my son?”

“Yes,” Annie said, smiling sadly, scooting a little closer. Dion was peering at them both quietly, looking between them nervously. He seemed worried that his Am’an was sad, but was still intrigued by the newcomer. 

Beelzebub finished off the food on her leaf, then tossed it to the flames before opening her arms, gesturing for Annie to hand her their child. 

“Dion, this is your Papa,” Annie said, her voice shaking as she looked from her son to her wife. 

Beelzebub held him in her lap, staring at him while he stared at her.

“You want to zee a magic trick?” Beelzebub asked when Dion failed to show any signs of understanding or joy. 

Dion grinned then and gave an affirmative “Ah!”

“What’zzz thiz behind your ear?” Beelzebub asked, reaching by Dion’s head and then pulling her hand back to show a fly—an insect which until that moment didn’t exist in the New Eden. 

Dion squealed in joy and clapped. 

“And you zee, watch clozze now.” Beelzebub closed her hand in a loose fist around the fly, then lifted it to the top of her head. She covered her forehead a moment with her free hand, and when she dropped it and opened her fist, the large fly Annie always remembered was back, perched atop Beelz’s head, rubbing its hands together.

Dionysus was rather pleased by that party trick, indeed. He clapped and cheered and reached up to pet the fly which rubbed its hands on his arms in return. 

“Do you want to give him a treat? He eatzzz. He’zzz very hungry.”

Dion wiggled out of Beelzebub’s lap in order to go to Annie’s leaf and pick up one of the vegetable stalks. 

“No, baby, try this one—give him something mushy, okay?” Annie said, offering a small berry instead, knowing the fly wasn’t the best at eating things that were crunchy. It’d spend the rest of the evening slobbering on whatever it was to make it soft enough to chew and that was a real mood killer. 

Dion took the berry and hurried back to Beelzebub, climbing into her lap and offering the berry up to the fly who took it greedily. He continued giving the fly more berries and treats while Annie and Beelzebub talked. 

She didn’t remember much of the war or much of Hell, but she remembered Annie—she remembered Crowley and ‘the angel’ and Constantine’s gospel. She remembered being Lord of the Flies and that she’d told ‘the big voice’ she wasn’t willing to let that go. 

They talked and talked while ‘Deus and the others watched them. Beelzebub’s attention seemed wholly focused on Dion and Annie, except when Thomas woke up and left the fire pit to go hollow out an apple (not the forbidden fruit in this New Eden, Annie had happy to announce) to smoke a certain herb from. Like her fathers and their attempt at making wine, Thomas had been quick to return to his Earthly vices, too. 

“What doezzz he have? What’zz he got?” Beelz asked, watching him before snatching the apple from him and smoking from it as well. It then became hers—then the fly’s. She tried to offer it to Dion and Annie promptly grabbed it and chucked it into the fire. 

“Hey! That was still _perfectly_ good!” Thomas shouted. 

“Make another,” Annie muttered. “Don’t give my son drugs—don’t try to give him wine.”

“There’zzzz wine?”

“Not yet,” Annie muttered, then laughed. What an adventure this was going to turn out to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go and then I'm retiring to write about Hastur and Avocados. It's been lovely!


End file.
